Like most other maladjusted, self-conscious late bloomers in my viciously looks-driven co-ed Catholic grade school microcosm, I started keeping tabs on the specific aspects of my appearance that I hated when I was still in the fourth grade. The list went something like this:
In the fifth grade, my social studies teacher caught me scowling when she assigned a ridiculously tedious project re: the similarities and differences among the Mayan, Inca, and Aztec cultures. She scolded me by warning, “If you keep making faces like that, you’re going to have wrinkles when you’re 30!” Thus necessitating the addition of:
to my list.
Thankfully, I was able to strike the first two grievances before high school—sixth grade brought with it the miracle of gas permeable contact lenses, and my agonizing, glacially paced orthodontic treatments finally ended the summer before ninth grade.
During high school, I started showing the first signs of the neurotic perfectionism that still plagues me to this day (which is a polite way of saying I fanatically dieted and exercised my way to narrower hips and a flat stomach). But since then, I’ve made no further progress on the final three flaws on my list. In fact, one of them—premature wrinkles—has risen in significance, no doubt due to the frown that has been almost permanently etched on my face since my first year in law school.
If I was a little more normal (and if my romantic prospects were a little more promising), I probably wouldn’t be giving any of this a second thought. Unfortunately, though, the months keep passing (a little faster each year), and I’m starting to fear that there isn’t much time left for me to attract a mate during my most marketable years.
The solution, therefore, is completely obvious. My lingering flaws—which are clearly the reason I’m currently, and practically always, single—are limp hair, thin lips, and early onset wrinkles (okay, it’s more like a few lines, but still).
The only logical conclusion? That I need botox, lip injections, and hair extensions. There really is no other way around it.
Admittedly, I was a little leery of the whole botox thing at first—largely because I thought I might be a little young for botox (I don’t see any other legitimate problem with having botulism injected into my face). That is, until my dermatologist helpfully informed me that, “Beginning botox at a young age actually freezes time and prevents lines from deepening, so you need less botox in the long run to get an effective result.” In that case, sign me up.
The next problem was that I thought all lip injections make the injectee look like Taylor Armstrong from Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Not so, apparently (at least, according to the heretofore mentioned dermatologist who convinced me that botox was pretty much invented for people in their 20′s). So I’m starting to warm to that idea, too.
Now for the hair extensions, which I (incorrectly) thought was a lost cause. I literally had no idea that there was such a thing as extensions for women like me, i.e. non-celebrities. And then I found out that there are like five salons within a few blocks of my apartment in Chicago that administer Great Lengths hair extensions (they aren’t cheap, but they last between four and six months, which seems totally reasonable given that I spend the same amount on only one month’s rent).
So there you have it. Before long—more specifically, in the time it takes to stick a few needles into my face and glue a bunch of clusters of human hair to my head—I will be back on the path to landing a mate before the twilight of my youth. God bless the scientists who invented this stuff, wherever they are. They’ve truly provided a public service and an advancement of the greater good.