Vegas culture sometimes makes me feel self-conscious, for example, whenever I page through the weekly magazine and see photos of the hotties in their slinky dresses, spray-tanned skin and neon teeth. All the gals striking the same pose they learned is flattering to the camera, with one hand on a hip, head tilted just so, with wide toothy smiles and eyes opened as large as they’ll go. Their pneumatic chests mashed into that of their gal pal. And, off to the side, is always a bro in black with short, spiky gelled hair, eyes gleaming like a kid in a candy shop.
I could never be one of those women. I’d feel stupid in a tube dress or with my hair all blown out like Farrah Fawcett. I have never been able to endure a salon for long. I get my hairs cut and styled then split. I can’t imagine sitting there for hours for extensions or a weave or coloring. By the second hour, I’d be reaching for the nearest bottle of nail polish remover, which I’d chug until I was retching and sprawled on the floor, mouth foaming, eyes rolling up into my head.
I wonder what thoughts flicker through the minds of women like this: “OMG, who is texting me now?” “OMG, her hair is sooo lame!” “OMG, he is sooo cute!” (Apparently their every thought must begin with OMG. I don’t know why but it seems right.)
Me, I’m quirky and scruffy and wear little makeup. I shampoo/condition my hair, towel dry it and hope for the best. I wash my hands and clip my fingernails, that is, if I haven’t bitten them to the nub already. I dress like I’m in the Ramones – my uniform, a black t-shirt and Levi’s. But you know what? Gosh darnit, I’m okay with this. There’s room for both the slick and the scruffy in this great, big world.
PS: Sometimes when I see pics of those girls, I’m reminded of this funny bit by Louis CK –