Sunday, August 22, 2010

Why I Don't Want a Boy Beautician

I strongly suggest that my women friends think twice before agreeing to their husband’s help in any beauty rituals.

I’ve always had unattractive hands; my fingernails peel and crack; my cuticles are quite shabby; and a high school friend likened my hands to the “man’s hands” on the Lava soap television advertisement. I wanted to look my most glamorous when marrying the man of my dreams, so I had a set of fake fingernails applied for our wedding.

After the wedding, one of the nails popped off. I mentioned to Richard that I needed to have my manicure repaired before we headed off on our honeymoon. He was mystified; “Why would you do that?” he asked.

“Well, my hands look worse with only a partial set of nails, so I either have to get the missing nail replaced, or I have them all removed.”

“Those nails make you look like you’re going to scratch someone’s eyes out. I like your hands the way they were.” And, to be truthful, one of the first compliments he had given me was, “I like your hands.” When this set me to guffawing, he continued, “They look like strong hands.” Who knew that a professional person would be looking for a strong woman instead of a glamorous trophy wife?

Richard offered to remove my nails, and I agreed. He asked me to stand by the sink while he got some supplies. Upon his return, he was carrying a bottle of paint stripper and some steel wool. It worked to get the nails off, and since my hands weren’t any thing of beauty before, I was satisfied with the results as soon as I saw that my skin was still intact.

I recently developed a staph infection in my armpit. Richard had recommended that I not shave until it cleared up. The first time I shaved after it cleared up, the infection returned. Richard’s theory was that my razor made small cuts in the skin into which the bacteria entered. Hairy pits on a woman, like strong hands, don’t offend him, so I stopped shaving again.

Today, he decided to assist me with shaving my underarms after a long break. This was precipitated by my request that he pick up a lady’s electric razor for me. “Oh, just try my electric razor,” he said. As I began the process, it felt like I was receiving electric shocks under my arms wherever I put the floating heads to my flesh. Upon hearing me scream, the ever-gallant Richard, offered to help. “You just have to do it more slowly,” he said. He knows I have two speeds: “overdrive” and “dead,” so I handed him the razor.

Mistake! He slowly ripped the skin off my under arms, but we didn’t realize what was happening until after it was over, and my pits were oozing something that looked strangely like blood. So much for safe shaving with an electric razor, and so much for Richard being my beautician.