There are two words that I’ve heard both men and women use to describe people who tend to have a little (or a lot of) fun with their grooming rituals: “high maintenance”.
I think it’s wickedly unfair that I get lumped in with the plastic surgery junkies, the people who take four hours to get ready each and every morning, and those who spend more money on clothes than Canada does on national defense (that’s actually not that hard…)
I’ve been accused of being ‘high maintenance’ strictly by virtue of the fact that I use more than a bar of soap and a box of baking soda to get myself together in the mornings. And I don’t think it’s fair.
There are those among us who view cosmetics as an affront to their natural beauty — for them, ‘product’ is not just ‘product’; it is a conspiracy aimed towards affirming a soul-killing sense of inadequacy in all of us, not to mention making us spend money on things that are no more necessary than another Paul Walker film.
Then there are those among us who simply don’t have the time or patience to invest in learning how to use the tools of the trade. Apparently, they have “more important things to do than fuss with that crap.”
My friends who fall into these categories often scoff at me when I apply lip gloss, or curl my hair. They wonder what kind of existential damage I am doing to myself by dusting on eyeshadow, or if the various lotions and potions I use are soaking a sense of false security into my epidermis along with aloe and coconut oil.
The fact is, I have fun with it all. I like being a girl. I like being a girly girl.
It doesn’t define me to my core by any means; I leave that kind of dramatic impact for things like integrity, honour, love, justice, and learning. But I do like to get up in the morning and spend a little time primping.
And I like things that smell good, and feel good — things that make my elbows less sandpapery; things that make my eyes less baby-birdish; even things that make my hair relax a bit and reflect the sun, rather than attract passing insects with a majestic web of frizz.
I am by no means ‘hot stuff’ — just another dorky chick. But I still enjoy it all.
I’m quite aware that all the high maintenance efforts in the world don’t cover up a black heart, and that a pleasing outside doesn’t guarantee a happy inside. I also don’t buy in to traditional notions of what is (and isn’t) beautiful.
I see loveliness in all manner of faces and places, and the existence of such rarely has anything to do with choosing the right shade of blush, or trimming your bangs just so.
I simply figure — since I’ve done (and continue to do) work on the insides of me — that perhaps I can fuss a little with the outsides if that’s what I like to do. It doesn’t make me shallow to enjoy having interesting colours, textures, and smells creatively applied to my own physical canvas.
From Summer 1996 to Summer 2005, I was in charge of a short summer getaway specifically geared towards single moms and their kids. It was much easier when my good friend Kristy came on board to co-direct with me from 2000 to 2005. She was the soul of organization, giving vital anchor to my last-minute ways.
It was an absolute labour of love for both of us, because it always felt worthwhile; the stuff that some of these women have been through would curl your toes, not your eyelashes. I loved their strength, their resolve, their devotion to their kids, and their ability to walk down a hard road alone.
Women are left single with their kids via a million different circumstances, but these women in particular had often come from tough places, and the break was one that they looked forward to all year.
For me, the key night at the retreat was a spa night that the female staff at our camp offered the moms. We’d do facials, massages, all manner of hair treatments, pedicures, and manicures — all in a setting designed for tranquility, with candles, good music, chocolates, frosty drinks, and bright, fragrant flowers.
We did it because most of them don’t have the time or money to do it for themselves, and we did it because it gave us an opportunity to touch them in ways that were healthy, joyful, affirming, and positive — especially when many of them had been the recipient of touches at some point that were just the opposite.
Some of them couldn’t wait to get a few inches trimmed from their locks, while others simply wanted the chance to sit still for a couple hours and let someone take care of them. These were not ‘high maintenance’ women, and they didn’t love the spa night because they felt ugly and in need of fixing up.
In fact, many of them had a level of physical confidence I would gladly take in exchange for every product I own.
No, they loved it because it celebrated the beauty that they already possess, and because it gave them a chance to revel in their own physical being for a few hours, before they went back to being sacrificial on a level I simply cannot fathom.
Often they would cry as someone rubbed peppermint cream into the soles of their feet, or ylang ylang oil into their shoulders. It’s wasn’t sadness, though — it was emotion born of connection, of affection, and of simply feeling good. Like a longer-lasting hug, or a directed caress.
It brought down walls, and it built relationships. It let those women know that we saw them, and that they were lovely in our eyes. Not because they had candy-apple red toenails, but because that is how they were made.
One of the women told me the second to last year that I ran the camp that, while she’d still come to the camp with her three little ones no matter what, she’d be sad if the spa night ever ceased to be a part of the week’s agenda.
When I asked her why, expecting her to say something about how much she loved the facials (her favourite treatment), she told me a story about brushing her grandmother’s hair as a child, and how that made her feel.
“I’d see her whole body relax, much more so than even when I would rush to hug her when I ran up the steps to her house. She’d close her eyes and sing a little song to me while I did it, and make me feel as though we were exchanging lullabies. I knew she loved those times, and it was wonderful to do it for her.
Certainly, she could have fixed her own hair, and done a better job, at that; I left knots in it all the time, and the big brush was awkward in my small hands. But it wasn’t about that — it was about giving her affection in an uncommon way.”
My own grandmother had a crown of curls that I probably would have snarled into oblivion if I’d gone at them, but I understood perfectly what she meant. And then she drove it home.
“You are teaching those young women to honour other women in a manner that is as old as history. It’s far more about the ritual than the result.”
Amen.
Quite frankly, I leave my house fairly often without a stitch of makeup, and I figure that a baseball cap is an excellent substitute for a hairdo if that’s what I decide works for me that day. But if I feel like rubbing some lotion into my legs, or putting on some mascara, or twisting my hair into a dark jumble of curls, I don’t think that makes me ‘high maintenance’.
And if it does, then so be it.
Because I know for a fact that I’m a damn good cake before I apply even a bit of frosting.
