A really scary thought . . .

Okay, so, in a previous rant, Holiday Sales and Uppers, I wondered if there would be any stores left to supply me with beauty products after an Independence Day-like disaster.

No makeup? No hair dye? No moisturizer? No exfoliant? No nail polish? I think I’m going to be sick just thinking about it.

What would that world look like? Okay, so there would be some ruined buildings and the cars wouldn’t start. Something like that. . . . But the important point is—what about me and my needs?

I first thought of this during the Y2K scare. The enormity of what no beauty products could mean sent me whirling into action, stocking up on everything from lipstick to cuticle cream. I thought, What happens when that supply runs out?

So I started researching ways to stave off hideousness with natural products gleaned from, say, my backyard, or a walk in the woods. Okay, so, charcoal might be useful, I thought. Burn some wood; scrape off the black charcoal; mix that with some olive oil or candle wax; and maybe I could formulate a post-disaster mascara.

I bought one of those crusher thingies for grinding herbs and spices. I pictured myself sitting on the ground, the bowl between my hairy legs (I’m still working on how to get my legs shaved without my Schick Hydro Silk TrimStyle), grinding away like some prehistoric pharmacist—mixing up herbal beauty products from leaves and twigs for the tribe women, because all the tribe men are such horndogs, never satisfied with their frizzy-haired, sun-damaged mates.

Spiraling Out of Control

I made a list of possible post-disaster beauty product recipes. But what if I couldn’t get ahold of any candle wax or olive oil? What if there was no electricity? OMG! No electricity! That means my curling iron, flattening iron, and hair dryer would not work! What about taking a shower? The thought of walking miles to find a watering hole in which to wash my hair, with no nice-smelling conditioner, or even shampoo, sent me into paroxysms of desperation.

I obsessed over the thought of feeling tiny spiders crawling under my skin because my loofah finally disintegrated, mites burrowing into the dirt under my fingernails because there were no more nail salons, my un-dyed hair frizzing to oblivion, pimples popping up due to the stress and no concealer to be found, and on and on ad nauseam.

Until finally, I would get to the point of really, really needing plastic surgery. But I would have been too late. No electricity would mean no liposuction. No facelift. No anything, like all the stuff lucky celebs have done to keep them looking 30 when they’re actually 60.

This constituted a spiral down into beauty hell.

But then, I had a lucid moment.

I thought, yeah, but nothing happened during Y2K. The nail salons never closed down. Hair dye stayed stocked on store shelves. The world of mascara was an ever-expanding universe of lash-enhancing choices. The Internet continued to offer every beauty product imaginable and the mail delivery systems remained in tact.

I began to feel a beatific moment coming on. I may have been having a religious experience—a spiritual awakening into the idea that this world will not fail me; that this world will continue to provide me with everything I need; that this is an abundant universe full of a glorious array of permanent hair dyes, delicious nail polish colors, nano-particle wrinkle creams, 24-hour underarm deodorants, and high-humidity hair sprays.

Technology will out.

So instead of obsessing on the what-ifs, I decided to dance a little jig because I live in the 21st century, where we can hide flaws, enhance eyelashes, get fat sucked out, tame frizz, and know that no matter how far down our faces sag, they can be hiked up again and sewn back into place.

Ahhhh . . . life is indeed good, I thought. It really is.

 

 

 

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