Have you seen the quiz on Facebook, wherein you accumulate points based on your beauty/hygiene routine? Daily showering, pedicures, time spent doing your hair - these all accrue points based on a value system and your total score determines your "maintenance level."
Let's say this: If I were a 4 door sedan you would buy me. 
So maybe I need a beauty intervention. Don't bother calling an ambush makeover show; I guarantee I'll be off the wagon inside of a week. Some people have tried getting involved in the past, and I appreciate it, I really do. I've been gifted with spa certificates, beauty products, and sweet smelling lotions. I've even enjoyed them when I eventually use them. They're lovely, really. But if you are looking to buy my love, buy me gin, or maybe some XL steel gray sweatpants.
There is also a factor of impatience. I don't want to wait 12 weeks to see a 46% decrease in wrinkle definition. I want them gone NOW! If a twice weekly application of a mere drop is instructed, I will use a palm full three times a day, because more is better and also faster; this is science. I am still waiting for the Sham-Wow guy to come out with a home facial sandblasting kit. I need RESULTS!
Each morning when I drop off my kids at school, I see moms who look amazing. I'm talking high heel leather boots, pencil skirts, long hair worn down kinda-moms. Not a bun in sight. And the worst part? These ladies are nice, so I can't even pretend they're terrible people who probably eat puppies and vote conservative on women's issues.
These are mothers of boys, just like me. WHERE ARE THE MUSTARD STAINS? I can't imagine having the time to get any of that beauty routine accomplished by means of anything short of tethering my son to the clothesline, wrapped chest down in bubble wrap while wearing a helmet and a life jacket. I'm sorry, but if I don't have drool or instant oatmeal on my shirt and at least the front section of my hair is brushed then I am looking good. Who looks fabulous at 8:00 in the morning? It's not NORMAL. I'm the girl who loves a Canadian winter for the sole reason that a long parka hides the fact that you are still in your pajamas. And that they are too small. And covered in dog hair.
I shower, my nails are clean, I appreciate a groomed eyebrow, and I floss 2x a day. As far as I am concerned, anything else is gravy. I just lack the gene responsible for scheduling weekly pedicures and eyeliner tattooing. I "shine up" real nice, and I can hold my own if given the time and inclination. But most days, I JUST DON"T CARE. If you care, I am so on board with that. I envy you that care. I love for you that care. You do you, and I'll be over here not doing me. But for 89.2% of the time, I am fully embracing the "F**k It" bun.
I can trace my hair care woes to the day when I was 10 and my step-mother threw me a curling iron and told me to not come out of my room, "until I had done something with my hair." She may as well have given me a waffle iron or floor waxer, because I had no idea what I was doing with the goddamn thing. I emerged from my prison an hour later, my forehead looking as though I'd rested burning cigarettes on it, seeking "hair approval." I must have passed, because I don't recall what happened next, although several psychologists have told me that is called a "self-preservation mechanism."
I also hate shaving. I do it, but I hate it. I live at the intersection of granola and mainstream, but can't quite make myself cross the street to "no shaving" territory. I tried waxing as an alternative at a friend's "helpful" suggestion; they even bought me a special "Wax Virgin" starter kit. We're not friends anymore. You know when on a movie or television show they play someone's scream echoing loudly through the Grand Canyon? That's almost as loud as I screamed when I first attempted to rip hair from my body using what amounts to little more than melted crayons and wax paper. I'm pretty sure hair follicles are not supposed to bleed, so I'm thinking I didn't do it correctly. The end result was not pleasant, and suffice to say what I left in the bathroom garbage can closely resembled what it would look like if you wiped a dead raccoon off the road with a wet paper towel.
I'm making my peace with it, and as long as I'm clean and understand the general principle behind a mascara wand, I think I'm okay. Oh, and let me share my one and only time-saver beauty tip: Comb only the side of your hair that faces the drive-thru window.
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