I've been a bit obsessed with my appearance lately. As I get older I become more conscious of the fact that I won't look young forever, and I want to enjoy my good features while they're still relatively fresh. Once was, I couldn't be bothered with contact lenses, tooth whitening, hair colour, and makeup. Now I indulge in all of the above.
I finally bit the bullet around a month ago. I had been using the same moisturizer, $12 a bottle from the health food store, for over ten years. Nothing wrong with it, but my skin needed more help. I have a mild form of rosacea, and oily skin. By the end of each day I looked red and shiny, which is great if you're an apple. I'm no apple.
I shopped around at those fancy little kiosks that sell high-end lotions and potions: Clinique, Lancome, etc. I finally settled on Shiseido, and let the girl behind the counter sell me The Works. I even bought the silly sounding things, like the Balancing Softener (which looks like a bottle of water) and the special cotton puffs that cost $8 per bag. I thought I may as well go all the way. I dropped almost $400 at that little stall.
I fully expected it to be a complete waste. Then I could go back to my $12 moisturizer without any doubts in my mind.
Amazingly, the stuff actually works. Not all of it. I find that the expensive blotting papers are no better than using paper towels, and the special cotton puffs are iffy. But the rest is having a very visible effect on my complexion. I'm not nearly as red-cheeked as I was, and my skin is smoother. The SPF50 sun lotion doubles as an oil control measure (I believe the technical term is "mattifying"), so I don't shine by the end of the day. I'm a convert.
Here's my other good trick. I've been accumulating spider veins since the 9th grade, so at this point I'm not willing to show my bare legs in public. For a long time I only wore pants, because even a modest skirt showed off those ugly veins. I tried going for injection treatments at a cosmetic clinic, but my needle phobia got the better of me and I found it too stressful to continue. However, I have found a solution. There is a dancer's supply store near my home. They stock the completely opaque tights worn by dancers and figure skaters. I bought a few pairs in the generic "tan" colour. Now I can wear short skirts without grossing out the general public. Yahoo!
I'll try not to take it too far. I don't want to be one of those women who apply makeup with a trowel. But for now I'm having fun looking my best.
Showing posts with label appearances. Show all posts
Showing posts with label appearances. Show all posts
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Being A Zero
Earlier today, a doctor I work with approaches, and greets me with:
"Hello, little boy!"
Me: Pardon?
Her: Hello, little boy!
Me: *confusion*
Her: Your hair, it makes you look like a little boy. My son has it like that, only worse.
Me: Worse? Thanks a lot. *I laugh, trying to give the (false) impression that I am not offended.*
Me: I figured I'd go with a boyish haircut to match my boyish figure.
Her: *smiles and wanders off*
I do have a boyish figure. I can fit quite comfortably into a boys size 12, and used to occasionally buy things from the kids department when I shopped in thrift stores throughout my early 20's.
For the most part, I'm grateful for my smallness and slightness.
I can't begin to imagine the difficulties faced by those who struggle with their body weight for their entire adult lives. I try to be extremely sensitive to that issue, knowing that I've been blessed with a quick metabolism and what comes effortlessly to me is a daily challenge for others. I never sneer or make assumptions about the reasons why someone is overweight.
My shape is convenient. I can run to catch a bus without having to hang on to my bosom. I've never had to worry about crumbs in cleavage, or sore shoulders from my bra straps digging in. I would NEVER get breast implants, even if they were free and I was guaranteed a 100% successful procedure with no complications. What God gave me is more than good enough.
It's much easier for me to buy clothes today than it was 15 years ago, when I had just joined the workforce. I attribute this to the large number of people of Asian origin who have immigrated to Canada. In the last ten years I've noticed that more and more stores carry extra-small sizes. There are still some women's clothing stores in which the smallest size is too big for me, but I have plenty of choice.
Average-sized or larger women tend to assume that nothing could be better than being tiny. I've known women to resent me before I was even introduced to them, based on jealousy. They feel free to discuss my body in ways that make me feel self-conscious. I wish they wouldn't.
They wouldn't make comments about the size of a larger woman, so why do they feel that it's OK to comment on my body? I try not to get too hung up about it, but when I hear someone I work with say "I can't see whether or not she's in her office - she's so TINY!", it makes me feel uncomfortable. I mean honestly, I'm not microscopic. Nor deaf.
Despite the fact that I have some items of clothing in my closet labelled "size 0", I do exist. (Sometimes that size zero thing gives me existential angst.)
I'll never forget the day that I went shopping to buy a dress for my senior prom. I was thrilled to have an excuse to buy a beautiful, hopefully sexy dress to wear for that all-important night. I went to Eaton's department store, to the Peppertree department for young women, but I had trouble finding something that fit. I sought the sales woman's help. She advised me to go looking for a dress in the children's department.
Ouch.
I don't even want to talk about swimsuits. Fortunately I don't enjoy swimming, so I haven't had to face that prospect since 1996.
Anyway, my point is that the women who feel so free to discuss my size should think twice. Would they want someone discussing them in those terms? There are lots of stereotypes about overweight people that we're supposed to be sensitive to: not all large people are lazy, or eat junk food, or don't exercise. I know quite a few people who exercise regularly and eat healthy but all they can do is to maintain their weight, not lose, due to metabolic issues.
People make a lot of assumptions about me based on my size. Anyone who doesn't know me well assumes I'm a vegetarian, which I'm not. Some people assume that I'm anorexic (a big assumption - it's a serious mental illness), which I'm not. Whenever I'm in a restaurant with a friend and we both order a soda, the server invariably puts the Diet Soda in front of me and the regular one in front of my friend, even though it's the other way around.
I'm happy with my shape and size. I wouldn't trade if I could. But that doesn't make it OK for people to say whatever they want about me. I would like to be treated with the same sensitivity with which I treat others. I've never said about anyone I work with "My goodness, she's so LARGE!" even if it might be true. But I doubt they'll ever see it that way.
Here's a link to a post where you can see the bod in question.
"Hello, little boy!"
Me: Pardon?
Her: Hello, little boy!
Me: *confusion*
Her: Your hair, it makes you look like a little boy. My son has it like that, only worse.
Me: Worse? Thanks a lot. *I laugh, trying to give the (false) impression that I am not offended.*
Me: I figured I'd go with a boyish haircut to match my boyish figure.
Her: *smiles and wanders off*
I do have a boyish figure. I can fit quite comfortably into a boys size 12, and used to occasionally buy things from the kids department when I shopped in thrift stores throughout my early 20's.
For the most part, I'm grateful for my smallness and slightness.
I can't begin to imagine the difficulties faced by those who struggle with their body weight for their entire adult lives. I try to be extremely sensitive to that issue, knowing that I've been blessed with a quick metabolism and what comes effortlessly to me is a daily challenge for others. I never sneer or make assumptions about the reasons why someone is overweight.
My shape is convenient. I can run to catch a bus without having to hang on to my bosom. I've never had to worry about crumbs in cleavage, or sore shoulders from my bra straps digging in. I would NEVER get breast implants, even if they were free and I was guaranteed a 100% successful procedure with no complications. What God gave me is more than good enough.
It's much easier for me to buy clothes today than it was 15 years ago, when I had just joined the workforce. I attribute this to the large number of people of Asian origin who have immigrated to Canada. In the last ten years I've noticed that more and more stores carry extra-small sizes. There are still some women's clothing stores in which the smallest size is too big for me, but I have plenty of choice.
Average-sized or larger women tend to assume that nothing could be better than being tiny. I've known women to resent me before I was even introduced to them, based on jealousy. They feel free to discuss my body in ways that make me feel self-conscious. I wish they wouldn't.
They wouldn't make comments about the size of a larger woman, so why do they feel that it's OK to comment on my body? I try not to get too hung up about it, but when I hear someone I work with say "I can't see whether or not she's in her office - she's so TINY!", it makes me feel uncomfortable. I mean honestly, I'm not microscopic. Nor deaf.
Despite the fact that I have some items of clothing in my closet labelled "size 0", I do exist. (Sometimes that size zero thing gives me existential angst.)
I'll never forget the day that I went shopping to buy a dress for my senior prom. I was thrilled to have an excuse to buy a beautiful, hopefully sexy dress to wear for that all-important night. I went to Eaton's department store, to the Peppertree department for young women, but I had trouble finding something that fit. I sought the sales woman's help. She advised me to go looking for a dress in the children's department.
Ouch.
I don't even want to talk about swimsuits. Fortunately I don't enjoy swimming, so I haven't had to face that prospect since 1996.
Anyway, my point is that the women who feel so free to discuss my size should think twice. Would they want someone discussing them in those terms? There are lots of stereotypes about overweight people that we're supposed to be sensitive to: not all large people are lazy, or eat junk food, or don't exercise. I know quite a few people who exercise regularly and eat healthy but all they can do is to maintain their weight, not lose, due to metabolic issues.
People make a lot of assumptions about me based on my size. Anyone who doesn't know me well assumes I'm a vegetarian, which I'm not. Some people assume that I'm anorexic (a big assumption - it's a serious mental illness), which I'm not. Whenever I'm in a restaurant with a friend and we both order a soda, the server invariably puts the Diet Soda in front of me and the regular one in front of my friend, even though it's the other way around.
I'm happy with my shape and size. I wouldn't trade if I could. But that doesn't make it OK for people to say whatever they want about me. I would like to be treated with the same sensitivity with which I treat others. I've never said about anyone I work with "My goodness, she's so LARGE!" even if it might be true. But I doubt they'll ever see it that way.
Here's a link to a post where you can see the bod in question.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Swanning Around at Birks
I like to think that, fundamentally, I'm not a superficial person. But I do experience occasional moods of superficiality, during which I feel enthused about experimenting with different colours of eye shadow and wearing a different pair of shoes every day.
Luckily those moods don't last long, because I don't own that many pairs of shoes. Also I can't pull off non-neutral (guys, that means brownish and/or greyish) eye-shadow. If I get too caught up in my moment, I'll go nuts and slap on some emerald green, royal blue, or raspberry pink (from a palatte given to me at my last birthday) and then spend the rest of the day trying to rub it off with my fingers while frowning at the mirror in public restrooms.
I don't own enough jewellery to justify a proper jewellery box, but I do have a very sparkly engagement bling. Ken bought it for me from Birks with his life's savings, because he loves a grand gesture and has very good taste. The ring is gorgeous and I treasure it.
I'm not sure how many of you are familiar with Birks. It is a supremely swanky retailer. They don't have a lowest price guarantee or a giant warehouse. It's all 3-inch-deep cream pile carpets and class in that place. Before Ken bought me my ring, I was intimidated by it. He'd take me in to window shop, and I'd be on edge, expecting to get kicked out because my jeans weren't the right designer and my sneakers were scruffy.
Now, I am one of the elite. The eagle eyes of the sales people spot my Birks bling in a heartbeat, and a red carpet rolls out at my feet. Can they get me a bottle of water? Would I like my ring run throught the cleaning/polishing machine? Is there anything I'd like to try on?
That's not to say that I don't still get intimidated from time to time. Once I was admiring a firey $300,000 diamond necklace. I can't find it on the website, probably because it was one-of-a-kind. A saleswoman sneaked up behind me and said over my right shoulder "Would you like to try it on?" I jumped a mile. I couldn't say no fast enough. It was like I thought I might break it, or steal it by accident. There was no way that necklace should be worn with a $12.00 Smart Set T-shirt. It might even disintigrate on contact with my lowly neck.
Even given the risk of another such encounter, I'll take any opportunity to pop into Birks, just to "see what's new", and swan around with my bling flashing under their specially adjusted, diamond-loving pot lights. It's fun to play princess for a little while.
Luckily those moods don't last long, because I don't own that many pairs of shoes. Also I can't pull off non-neutral (guys, that means brownish and/or greyish) eye-shadow. If I get too caught up in my moment, I'll go nuts and slap on some emerald green, royal blue, or raspberry pink (from a palatte given to me at my last birthday) and then spend the rest of the day trying to rub it off with my fingers while frowning at the mirror in public restrooms.
I don't own enough jewellery to justify a proper jewellery box, but I do have a very sparkly engagement bling. Ken bought it for me from Birks with his life's savings, because he loves a grand gesture and has very good taste. The ring is gorgeous and I treasure it.
I'm not sure how many of you are familiar with Birks. It is a supremely swanky retailer. They don't have a lowest price guarantee or a giant warehouse. It's all 3-inch-deep cream pile carpets and class in that place. Before Ken bought me my ring, I was intimidated by it. He'd take me in to window shop, and I'd be on edge, expecting to get kicked out because my jeans weren't the right designer and my sneakers were scruffy.
Now, I am one of the elite. The eagle eyes of the sales people spot my Birks bling in a heartbeat, and a red carpet rolls out at my feet. Can they get me a bottle of water? Would I like my ring run throught the cleaning/polishing machine? Is there anything I'd like to try on?
That's not to say that I don't still get intimidated from time to time. Once I was admiring a firey $300,000 diamond necklace. I can't find it on the website, probably because it was one-of-a-kind. A saleswoman sneaked up behind me and said over my right shoulder "Would you like to try it on?" I jumped a mile. I couldn't say no fast enough. It was like I thought I might break it, or steal it by accident. There was no way that necklace should be worn with a $12.00 Smart Set T-shirt. It might even disintigrate on contact with my lowly neck.
Even given the risk of another such encounter, I'll take any opportunity to pop into Birks, just to "see what's new", and swan around with my bling flashing under their specially adjusted, diamond-loving pot lights. It's fun to play princess for a little while.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Can't Wait for Spring
You all heard me complain about how middle age is sneaking up on me.
I'm of two minds when it comes to the concept of age-appropriate clothing. On one hand, I don't want to want to raise eyebrows by dressing too young, especially at work. On the other hand, I don't want to go to the other extreme and bore myself into an early grave with tasteful neutrals.
Just to make sure I still have something fun to wear on the weekends, I went out and bought myself this gear from the teen department. Can't hardly wait for the warm weather so that I can swan around town in my:
... T-shirt with bears camping out in sleeping bags. One of the bears is roasting a marshmallow over the campfire.
And my...
... ballet flat sneakers, which are covered in rainbows, hearts, stars, butterflies, and lightening bolts. Very mature, yes? No? And my...
... short-sleeved, robin's egg blue hoodie, covered in bluebells. You can't see from the photo, but each and every little bluebell blossom has a wee little happy face on it.
I'm only paid to act my age on weekdays. The rest of the time, I plan to regress shamelessly.
I'm of two minds when it comes to the concept of age-appropriate clothing. On one hand, I don't want to want to raise eyebrows by dressing too young, especially at work. On the other hand, I don't want to go to the other extreme and bore myself into an early grave with tasteful neutrals.
Just to make sure I still have something fun to wear on the weekends, I went out and bought myself this gear from the teen department. Can't hardly wait for the warm weather so that I can swan around town in my:
... T-shirt with bears camping out in sleeping bags. One of the bears is roasting a marshmallow over the campfire.
And my...
... ballet flat sneakers, which are covered in rainbows, hearts, stars, butterflies, and lightening bolts. Very mature, yes? No? And my...
... short-sleeved, robin's egg blue hoodie, covered in bluebells. You can't see from the photo, but each and every little bluebell blossom has a wee little happy face on it.
I'm only paid to act my age on weekdays. The rest of the time, I plan to regress shamelessly.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Hair Cutters
Once a month, I develop a bad case of Pom-Pom Head. I have thick hair that grows faster than average, so it can go from looking great to looking like a fuzzball pretty quickly.
My stylist is a lovely Iranian woman. She's glamorous, always with hair and makeup done Just So. Sidenote: I feel compelled to mention that I hate the word "stylist". There's something pretentious about it that rubs my fur the wrong way. I grew up with "hairdresser", which is a perfectly serviceable word. I cannot justify this preference. It's just one of those things.
Overall, I dislike beauty salons. They're usually loud, crowded, hot (from all the hair dryers and flattening irons), and, of course, pretentious. Once I totally got TOLD by the woman who was booking appointments at the front desk. I made the terrific gaffe of saying that I was coming in to get my hair dyed. She corrected me with a fierceness that took me by surprise: "IT'S COLOURED! WE DO NOT DYE HAIR! WE COLOUR YOUR HAIR!"
Uh, okay, if you feel that strongly about it...
This is why I don't dare refer to the stylists as hairdressers. Someone might take offense and "accidentally" sever my earlobe at my next trim.
So anyway, getting back to my hairdresser (this is my blog and I get to use my words. MY WORDS!!), she is very sweet. She always greets me with a hug, calls me honey, tells me I'm beautiful. In fact, she chants the word "Beautiful!" like a mantra as she puts the finishing touches on my hair at the end of the cut. "Ah, beautiful... beautiful... So cute! Such a beautiful girl! You should be a model. Eh? Why not? Yes, you should!" She never wants to hear my protests that 35 is a little late to be starting a modeling career. Don't confuse her with the facts! Her mind is made up!
Then she tells me that I'm her favourite customer. To myself I'm like "Yeah, she says that to all her clients." But another part of me laps it up like a cat eating cream. Go ahead! Call me gorgeous and butter me up! Yeah, like that. That's how I like it. Big tip for you!
My stylist is a lovely Iranian woman. She's glamorous, always with hair and makeup done Just So. Sidenote: I feel compelled to mention that I hate the word "stylist". There's something pretentious about it that rubs my fur the wrong way. I grew up with "hairdresser", which is a perfectly serviceable word. I cannot justify this preference. It's just one of those things.
Overall, I dislike beauty salons. They're usually loud, crowded, hot (from all the hair dryers and flattening irons), and, of course, pretentious. Once I totally got TOLD by the woman who was booking appointments at the front desk. I made the terrific gaffe of saying that I was coming in to get my hair dyed. She corrected me with a fierceness that took me by surprise: "IT'S COLOURED! WE DO NOT DYE HAIR! WE COLOUR YOUR HAIR!"
Uh, okay, if you feel that strongly about it...
This is why I don't dare refer to the stylists as hairdressers. Someone might take offense and "accidentally" sever my earlobe at my next trim.
So anyway, getting back to my hairdresser (this is my blog and I get to use my words. MY WORDS!!), she is very sweet. She always greets me with a hug, calls me honey, tells me I'm beautiful. In fact, she chants the word "Beautiful!" like a mantra as she puts the finishing touches on my hair at the end of the cut. "Ah, beautiful... beautiful... So cute! Such a beautiful girl! You should be a model. Eh? Why not? Yes, you should!" She never wants to hear my protests that 35 is a little late to be starting a modeling career. Don't confuse her with the facts! Her mind is made up!
Then she tells me that I'm her favourite customer. To myself I'm like "Yeah, she says that to all her clients." But another part of me laps it up like a cat eating cream. Go ahead! Call me gorgeous and butter me up! Yeah, like that. That's how I like it. Big tip for you!
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Judged by a jury of our peers
Lucinda was 41 years old and had recently escaped a hellish marriage. She had been forced to move, with her two children, into a shelter. She looked like life had chewed her up and spit her out. Then Style by Jury got their hands on her.
By the end of one week, Lucinda was a new woman. She’d had her teeth capped, her eyes lasered, her hair tamed, and she’d been poured into a svelte little cocktail dress. She was all smiles when the jury delivered their final verdict. She declared herself filled with newfound confidence.
So, what exactly is the message? Is it a wonderful blessing that this woman, so good-hearted and downtrodden, has been given a new lease on life through her renovated appearance? Sure, I guess so. But what about the thousands of other hard-luck cases, who don’t have the good fortune to be chosen for a makeover show?
If society is under-appreciating so many good-hearted people just because they can’t afford artificial teeth, I submit that makeover shows are not the solution. I propose filming a TV show that interviews and appreciates good-hearted people just as they are. I would call it Hidden Treasures, and it would have just as many inspiring and heart-warming moments as What Not to Wear. Yeah, yeah, I know. In my dreams. When pigs fly.
I gave myself a makeover within the past year. I cut off my mop of frizzy hair and went for a sleek, short look. I learned how to wear makeup. I got rid of my thrift-store wardrobe and bought good clothes that fit. And people did start treating me differently. Some women at work who used to not have the time of day for me suddenly got all chummy.
But that didn’t feel like a victory. The people who decided to start being friendly with me just because I looked “cool” weren’t people I wanted to be friends with anyway. My new look gives me a psychological advantage, but not in a heartwarming way. The bottom line: it gives me more influence with shallow people.
Beyond basic hygiene and some evidence of personal pride, appearances are over-rated. Give me a brilliant, funny person with funky teeth and glasses any day of the week. [/end rant]
By the end of one week, Lucinda was a new woman. She’d had her teeth capped, her eyes lasered, her hair tamed, and she’d been poured into a svelte little cocktail dress. She was all smiles when the jury delivered their final verdict. She declared herself filled with newfound confidence.
So, what exactly is the message? Is it a wonderful blessing that this woman, so good-hearted and downtrodden, has been given a new lease on life through her renovated appearance? Sure, I guess so. But what about the thousands of other hard-luck cases, who don’t have the good fortune to be chosen for a makeover show?
If society is under-appreciating so many good-hearted people just because they can’t afford artificial teeth, I submit that makeover shows are not the solution. I propose filming a TV show that interviews and appreciates good-hearted people just as they are. I would call it Hidden Treasures, and it would have just as many inspiring and heart-warming moments as What Not to Wear. Yeah, yeah, I know. In my dreams. When pigs fly.
I gave myself a makeover within the past year. I cut off my mop of frizzy hair and went for a sleek, short look. I learned how to wear makeup. I got rid of my thrift-store wardrobe and bought good clothes that fit. And people did start treating me differently. Some women at work who used to not have the time of day for me suddenly got all chummy.
But that didn’t feel like a victory. The people who decided to start being friendly with me just because I looked “cool” weren’t people I wanted to be friends with anyway. My new look gives me a psychological advantage, but not in a heartwarming way. The bottom line: it gives me more influence with shallow people.
Beyond basic hygiene and some evidence of personal pride, appearances are over-rated. Give me a brilliant, funny person with funky teeth and glasses any day of the week. [/end rant]
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