girly girl.
above: a good hairdo choice for a ritzy night out, or doing
a load of whites, or sitting at home futzing with the rabbit ears on
your cable-less TV.
There are two words that I've heard both men and women use to
describe people who tend to have a little 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 in the least.
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 lipgloss, 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 such things 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.
Since the summer of 1996, I have been in charge of a short summer
getaway specifically geared towards single moms and their kids. It's
been much easier since my good friend Kristy came on board to co-direct
with me from 2000 to the present -- she's been the soul of organization
giving vital anchor to my last-minute ways.
It's an absolute labour of love for both of us, because it always
feels worthwhile; the stuff that some of these women have been through
would curl your toes, not your eyelashes. I love 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 have often come
from tough places, and the break is one that they look forward to all
year.
For me, the key night in the retreat is a spa night that the female
staff at our camp offer the moms. We 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 do it because most of them
don't have the time or money to do it for themselves, and we do it
because it gives us an opportunity to touch them in ways that are
healthy, joyful, affirming, and positive -- especially when many of
them have been the recipient of touches at some point that were just
the opposite. Some of them can't wait to get a few inches trimmed from
their locks, while others simply want the chance to sit still for a
couple hours and let someone take care of them. These are not 'high
maintenance' women, and they don't love the spa night because they feel
ugly and in need of fixing up -- in fact, many of them have a level of
physical confidence I would take in exchange for every product I own.
They love it because it celebrates the beauty that they already
possess, and because it gives them a chance to revel in their bodies
for a few hours, before they go back to being sacrificial on a level I
cannot fathom.
Often they will cry as someone rubs peppermint cream into the soles
of their feet, or ylang ylang oil into their shoulders. It's not
sadness, though -- it's emotion born of connection, of affection, and
of simply feeling good. It's a longer-lasting hug, or a directed
caress. It brings down walls, and it builds relationships. It lets
those women know that we see them, and that they are lovely in our
eyes. Not because they have candy-apple red toenails, but because that
is how they were made.
One of the women told me last year 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.
'Cause I know for a fact that I'm a damn good cake inside before I apply even a bit of frosting.
1:12:40 AM 
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