I have a confession to make. I’m addicted to beauty products. Seriously, they’re like my crack. I love the smells, the feel, the yummy lotions, potions, and serums, each nestled in beautiful, wildly overpriced glass jars with sparkling lids, all promising to turn back the unforgiving hands of time and bring back a tiny hint of the natural beauty we had simply by being young. My bathroom looks like a Nordstrom Cosmetic Department trunk show, and I have enough products to lift, tone, lighten, brighten, soften, smooth, exfoliate, and plump the skin of roughly half the State of New York.
One of my favorite activities (neither shared nor understood by Hubs) is simply to cruise Nordstrom, Sephora, or Ulta for anything new or fabulous that I haven’t tried. I can spend hours reading labels, trying samples, smelling fragrances, opening jars, and happily stacking the checkout counter with yet another product proclaiming the newly discovered secret to eternal youth.
Do I believe all these promises? After a lifetime in retail, I’d have to say…uh, no. But it’s nice to wonder “What if?” What if this is the one that really does give back what God gave and gravity took away? What if “just one drop” of this serum made my makeup last all day long without touching up? What if this lotion really melts cellulite? Why not give it a try? Just think of me as your human research project.
Living in a small town, an hour away from any sources of high-end beauty products and limited to plastic containers purchased at stores also selling kitty litter and Dickie’s jeans, I’ve had to make alternate plans to satisfy my cravings, and hence discovered online beauty shopping. And not just for the recognized, established lines and products. Turns out there’s a whole world of bizarre beauty products out there that even I’m not willing to test.
One nocturnal night of 2 a.m. online beauty product sleuthing uncovered these:
1. Bag Balm. Originally invented to help soften milk cow’s udders. They say it makes a great lip balm. Just can’t get past the visual.
2. Finale Pink Nipple Cream. Conditions and rosies up your nips. Are nipples supposed to be rosy? And who, exactly, would know if they were or weren’t?
3. Henna & Placenta Hair Mask for Extremely Damaged Hair. Again with the bovine? And who the hell was the first person to try this??
4. Firm Grip Spray. Basically, butt glue. Keeps panties and bikini bottoms from creeping into your butt crack. Your other option is to get panties that fit.
5. Deo Perfume & Edible Deodorant. If Hubs has an armpit fetish and like to lunch on your underarm, I guess this is for you. Nom nom.
6. Heel No Pain. Anesthetic spray you apply to your feet to numb them so you can wear high heels. If you’re a runway model or a stripper and 5″ heels are a job requirement, spray away, ladies. Otherwise, the world is full of cute flats.
7. Lush Cacas Hair Henna. Basically, a black bar of soap that works like hair dye. Oh, and “cacas” is French for poop. Just…no.
8. Swoob (as in “sweat + boobs”) Cream Deodorant for your boobs. Also available as “Bust Dust” and “Boobalicious Breast Deodorant.” How is it I’ve gone 57 years without realizing my breasts have a glandular problem that requires its own product? (And of course, lest the men feel left out, there’s “Fresh Balls” for the guys. We will if you will.)
9. Farguinnay Bacon Cologne. Smells like bacon cooking in the great outdoors. It depends on who you’re dating. If he likes his Twinkies deep-fried in bacon, this stuff could have you two happily wed by summer’s end.
10. Breast Milk Soap. I just can’t bring myself to scrub up with someone else’s breast milk. I mean, they had to get it from somewhere.
11. Bird Poop Facial. Offered at a NYC Day Spa. Powdered nightingale droppings, formerly used by the Geisha, designed to soften and brighten skin. Not. Gonna. Happen.
And my personal favorite:
12. Fun Betty Hot Pink Color Kit for the Hair Down There. For the woman whose man always fantasized about magenta-colored lady bushes. So if you’ve ever promised hubs, “I’d do anything to make you happy,” be prepared to dye your woo hoo farm Hello Kitty pink.
So Hubs goes out one night with the guys to watch a game at the local sports bar, and I decided to get out my non-placenta-containing, cacas-free, get ‘er done products and have an at-home spa night. At that time, Hubs had never actually seen “the process.” He knew that once every couple of weeks, I’d lock myself in the bathroom for an hour or two and “do whatever it is I do,” but I naively hoped we could spend a few decades together without him seeing what it took for me to look how we both liked. My mother always said marriage needs a little mystery. It was dark outside, and I was alone, so why not?
But having recently watched the entire last season of Criminal Minds, every passing shadow in the window conjured up visions of psychotic, ax-wielding serial killers, so before I got started, I locked all the doors and windows, pulled the blinds, and set the alarm system.
Feeling secure, I slapped on my hair color (which instantly turns to a foamy blue head cap), applied a collagen-dipped cloth face mask, spread hot paraffin on my feet and covered them with thick socks, massaged a generous amount of white bust firming cream onto my
beagle ears cha chas and anti-cellulite cream on my thighs, slipped on one of Hubs’ oversized white t-shirts to avoid disturbing the creams while they absorbed, then finished with a fabulously rich hand cream and lime green spa gloves. I settled onto the couch to watch Sandra Bullock in a rom-com, when I heard the key in the front door lock.
I jumped up in a panic, sliding on my socks and smacking into the wall, trying to make a mad dash to the bathroom, instead running directly into the path of a stunned Hubs, who, not surprisingly, burst into apparently uncontrollable and boisterous merriment, choking out, “What the hell are you doing, woman?!? And why is the house all locked up???”
With my dignity entirely shredded, I stood straight and replied, “I was having a spa night, and I was all alone. And I didn’t want anybody to break in. There could be a burglar or a rapist or something out there, you know.”
Still teary-eyed from laughing, he waved his hand in my direction, “Just answer the door in…well, that. You’re sort of a “Scared-Straight” for perverts!” Well, anything to keep the neighborhood safe.
Getting old is not for wussies.