I'm High-Maintenance Now

But also very lazy

Paint me like one of your less old girls. Photo by Laura Chouette on Unsplash

When my friends and I get together, we drink a bunch of White Claws and play with Snap Chat filters. It was all fun and neon dog noses until we discovered the “Old Lens”— a filter designed to take your cherub face and age it.

I looked exactly the same. Possibly better.

“My jowls look smaller,” I said. “And my roots are less gray.”

“Maybe I forgot to add the filter?” my friend said, pretending to fidget with the screen.

“It erased my wrinkles! WHERE ARE MY CROW’S FEET???”

“Maybe it’s called Bold Lens,” she said. “Like bold and beautiful? I’m sure that’s it!”

She’s a good friend, but no…

OMG! I was too old for the old filter!

Mirror Mirror

Years ago I met a blind date for drinks after work. About 4 seconds after introductions he told me I had a poppyseed in my tooth.

First of all, How dare you?

Second of all, How embarrassing! Without any visual proof to back up my claim, I choose to argue with him.

“Not possible. The last time I had anything with a poppyseed was the bagel I ate for breakfast. That was 11 hours ago!”

“Oookay, then,” he said, then asked the bartender if it was possible to dim the lights a little more.

But I slithered off to the bathroom and sure enough— a big old poppy seed was wedged right up in my front tooth. How could I have gone all day without noticing that, you ask? Did I not smile or open my mouth or have any friends? Do I not glance upwards while washing my hands after using the bathroom? Who doesn’t do a cursory peek in the sideview mirror before hoping out of the car to meet a date? Maybe he thought I really was blind.

So, when can I see you again?

The answer is simple: I avoid mirrors.

This easy life hack has served me well (except for the times it’s led to an ambush full-face waxing.) I know people who use those light-up magnifying mirrors that probe so deep under their skin, they can pinpoint a chin hair seven years from breaking the surface and turn their pores into the La Brea Tar Pits.

No thanks!

As my mom used to say, Ignorance is bliss. She definitely didn’t mean, “Honey, if you don’t know there’s a bat in your cave, no one else will either!” but choosing to remain blissfully ignorant about your four brows and the blackhead brigade taking over the bridge of your nose does wonders for the self-esteem. My face and I are in a long-distance relationship. Love is blind or at least very far-sighted.

Except when your face is accidentally right in front of your face.

OMG I’M OLD!

It’s not a filter! It’s not a fun house mirror! It’s not that grainy security footage we’re forced to look at while bagging our bananas and Joanna Gaines tea towels at the Target self-checkout.

My face changed since I last accidentally saw it roughly thirteen years ago. It’s very subtle. Things are a bit lower and more hangy. There are lines where there weren’t before. It’s so many different colors! Clearly this resting bitch face hasn’t been resting!

Remember Momo, the internet witch hoax we were all warned about? When I first saw her picture I was horrified— and not just because of what she was allegedly doing to children! We could have been related! This is a much nicer picture of Momo but honestly the similarities are uncanny. You can’t unsee it!

My Ascent into High Maintenance

Do I have the energy to wrestle an eyelid primer out of the grip of a sixth grader? No, I do not. Would I even know how to use one if I did? Absolutely no idea. I love make-up, but I’ve never mastered it. I still can’t find my cheekbones.

It would baffle my mom to see me roll out with only some tinted moisturizer and a few swipes of mascara on my nubby lashes. Different era, friends. Going out without your face done was like going out without a top.

“Aren’t you going to wear make-up?” she would ask.

“GOD MOM, I’m literally covered in it!”

But I’d smear on some Burt’s Bees tinted lip balm to appease her and leave my house feeling like a Jackson Pollock painting.

My no-make-up, make-up look worked just fine. I didn’t think a thing about running to Trader Joe’s au naturel first thing in the morning. Then a few years ago, I noticed my skin taking a turn toward the vampiric so I’d swipe a couple blush streaks on my cheeks so no one thought I was ill. Perhaps perimenopause made my eyelashes thinner and thus my eyes disappear so I’d apply some lengthening and conditioning mascara before heading out. Next thing I knew, my “just going to run an errand” face looked just like my “going to an evening wedding” face.

Friends, I’ve never been one to equate happiness with physical appearance, but this maquillage intervention was necessary! I simply could not enter the public domain without a little cosmetic help. It was like an athlete wrapping their shoulder in kinesiology tape before a big game or a Real Housewife applying a spray tan before the reunion. It was my civic duty!

Belly Up to the Lash Bar

One afternoon I was all dolled up for my daily walk when I stopped to tie my sneaker in front of a salon. In an uncharacteristic move, I looked up and saw my face reflected in the window. I braced for impact. Maybe my lips were gone? Perhaps I had two giant age spots were my eyes once were? Would my neck be mistaken for an elephant’s trunk? There was my face in all her glory, but I barely noticed because my eyes immediately locked on an ad featuring a model with the most beautiful eyelashes I had ever seen. Mesmerizing! I looked like her “before” photo.

This was not an ordinary salon. This was a “lash bar.” Sorcery happened here. My face pulled toward the door with the same urgency my dog displays when she senses a good butt to sniff.

Let’s go in, let’s go in! My face pleaded.

If I get you those eyelashes, will you promise to not look so sad all the time? And use them more than that lash growth serum I spent a fortune on? I asked her.

Yesssssssssss, my face answered. I want those lashes very, very much and promise to take good care of them!

I booked an appointment for the next day.

Whose the Fairest of Them All?

The appointment lasted about two hours (!), most of which I spent snoring on a massage table (a glorious perk of being old and able to fall asleep anywhere unless it’s at night in your own bed.) Upon completion, the esthetician gave me a hand mirror and told me I could look.

But I didn’t want to. I was terrified!

I tried to calm myself with some affirmations.

You are strong!

You are confident!

You have to get up because her next appointment is waiting in the lobby!

I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.

WOW! Who was this long-lashed goddess? I have never seen me look like this! They were natural, but definitely not natural and that is exactly the look I’m after! What else was on the menu? Ombré brows? Lip plumping? BOTOX! I went into the bathroom to pee and got distracted by my face— in the mirror—for so long, the esthetician had to check on me.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Am I okay? I’m fucking stunning!" I yelled. “YOU WILL NEVER BE RID OF ME!”

Hi, Maintenance!

Lash extensions are great but they require a ton of upkeep. They need to be “filled” every 2-3 weeks and it ain’t cheap. But I already told Bart if it comes down to electricity or my lashes, I hope he likes reading by candlelight and eating dry cereal. (He actually does.)

So yes, I’m a high maintenance lash girl now BUT I still wear the same sweats six out of seven days a week so…

Looks change. It’s a part of getting older. But also part of getting older is saying, "Fuck discretionary income! I’m gonna pay someone a lot of money to glue a single synthetic lash extension to every one of my natural eyelashes every 14 days and feel damn good about it!” It’s my right as a middle-aged lady mom.

Self reflection is good for you. It doesn’t look too shabby either.

XO,

Shelly

I’m one more chin hair away from this.