I didn’t set out to become high-maintenance, really I didn’t. I was tripping along, clam-happy, unmanicured, and wash and go all through my twenties with nary a problem. Then I hit my thirties and the hair products, moisturizers, serums, scrubs, buffs, and anti-wrinkle creams hit the fan, or, more appropriately, my face. 

Granted, I’ve always been vain and completely silly about my hair.

Leave in, rinse out, deep conditioners, masks, color enhancers, frizz tamers, you name it, I’ve probably sat around with it steeping on my head for thirty minutes or longer at some point in my life. Some profess to believe in all-natural products made with butters, balms and banana peels (for all I know). Me, I’ve always been partial to the artificial. Better living through chemistry I say. I lean toward hair care chockfull of delicious chemicals that you cannot even begin to pronounce like ammonium lauryl sulfate and that perennial fave, guar hydroxypro-pyltrimonium chloride.

Words like these bring back traumatic flash backs to childhood spelling bees, but one must suffer for beauty.

Surprised. I’m comfortable with stressing over my split ends. It’s my skin that’s starting to alarm me. My complexion is beginning to crave attention and I see no reason why it has to be so dramatic about it.  I’m concerned, in particular, with the subject of aging. You know the crease that appears when you furrow your brow in puzzlement or deep concentration? Well, the only thing puzzling me of late is why that line is there ALLTHE TIME?  On my forehead, a line associated with an expression of surprise has found a permanent home as well. I’ll say I’m surprised all right. I never thought it would happen to me.

Fortunately, one need go no further than a department store, drug store, and, perhaps, hardware store for all I know. Apparently there is big money in mounting a pharmaceutically enhanced mission to stop the march of time. Standing before a dazzling array of packaging and marketing that only the finest minds of Madison Avenue could dream up, I am overwhelmed. My choices includes multi-action cleanser, invigorating scrubs, hydrating masks, daily moisture defense, age rescue, eye therapies, refreshers, refinishers, revitalizers, lotions and something called a serum that appears for all the world like it should require a prescription. These products come in tubes roughly the size of my thumb all holding something like .002 ounces of product.  Buying them all would cost me well over $4,000 annually and easily require an additional two to three hours per day to apply them all in proper formation. Call me a slob but this seems just a tad excessive.

Off. Worse yet, it turns out that slathering things ON my skin is not nearly enough. “Most people can benefit enomously from adding a proper exfoliant into their daily routines!” trumpeted a recent beauty headline. A proper exfoliant? Is that anything like fiber?  

Apparently I must REMOVE the top layer of my epidermis (that’s skin to you non-beauty expert types) in order to effectively slather moisturize back ON? Interesting theory, but how on earth do I know when to STOP? I’d hate to be removing perfectly good skin that I had spent good money to plump, luminize, and moisturize just hours earlier. I’m no expert, but that seems counterproductive.  

The final blow comes from the realization that even the not-so- pearly-whites aren’t safe from the anti-aging onslaught. Manufacturers, not content to make us feel inferior about our skin, have stepped it up to making us afraid to crack a smile. Apparently, whiter, brighter teeth can “dramatically reduce the signs of aging.” Thoughtfully, a vast array of teeth whitening products have come forth to save us from our dull-smiled (and apparently dim-witted) selves. I think we can all agree that there is simply nothing more pathetic and unattractive than an otherwise lovely woman with badly aging molars. 

Rest. So much for resting on my laurels ala’ “well, she has a great personality.” Now I have to feel inferior because I haven’t (yet) had my teeth whitened. If I can’t smile (thus providing at least some REASON for having all those wrinkles in the first place), what’s left? I’ll just be standing around all wrinkley and puckered up with only the barest hint of a Mona Lisa smirk to indicate my pleasure with life.  

That DOES sound pretty. 

Frankly, I’d throw in the towel on all this goop, glop, cream and lotion but I’ll need the towel to wipe this cr#$ off.