Beauty is Pain and Guys are Clueless

self-explanatory title

First comes the shower, an exceptionally long one infused with some fantastic-smelling shower gel. Thrown into this step is the torturous shaving, the epitome of “beauty is pain”. Men, be glad your legs can be hairy, and be extremely glad you don’t have to pluck your eyebrows. I don’t want to haunt your dreams with these words, so I won’t tell you how this is done. After unacceptable-hair removal, all sorts of things go into my acceptable hair since it’s hard to control on a normal day, and today is not normal. Today, it has to be perfect.         Next is the arduous task of lotion. Trying to reach every part of your body with this pleasant-smelling substance is surprisingly difficult. After strapping on the appropriate undergarments to conceal that which you don’t want seen and to beautify that which you do want seen, comes the tights. These pseudo-skins, which I swear were created in an attempt to punish women for all eternity, are particularly difficult to get into, but are necessary. Unfortunately.         Then the slip, designed to hold all your body parts in place. Now comes the worst part – makeup and hair. You sit in a chair, in my case for three hours, while someone else makes you look beautiful. Thankfully, my sister is skilled in the art of beautification, so I didn’t have to shell out an extra hundred-or-so bucks for this process. I did, however, have to sit and not move for three hours. Three hours. As I sat there, getting re-plucked, preened, brushed, curled and therefore burnt, tugged at, brushed on, painted on, glossed, glittered and even stabbed a little, my only consolation was that I knew my date’s getting ready process took all of about ten minutes, so he’d probably be on time for once.         After enough products were piled on my hair, body and face so that I felt I would crack if I smiled, I was released from the confines of the chair. I had to be especially careful of the gorgeous tresses that were now my hair since they’d been artificially curled in an attempt to make them behave better than my naturally curly hair usually does. By the way, this attempt? I would later find it had not been successful.         Now comes the short-but-nerve-wracking procedure of pulling a silk dress over my head without upsetting anything. This process requires at least one other person to help, though two more people is better. Finally, the violet silk is on, zipped and buttoned, and I see that the undergarments are keeping my parts relatively in line. However, since some of my parts are so… extravagant, they shant be kept in line for long.         Since I am unwilling to break body parts in an attempt to reach beauty, I opt out of heels. I instead slide into a delicate pair of jeweled flats which are themselves silk and, therefore, require just as much care as everything else I’m wearing.         After cramming dangly earrings into the small holes in my ears and clipping on a necklace, I’m finally ready. Grabbing my purse – which is chocked full of anything, and I do mean anything, I might need tonight – I check my reflection one last time, grab the keys, and carefully slide into the car. After a twenty-mile drive to the designated meeting point, trying not to let anything get messed up and trying not to let my slippery shoes cause an accident, I arrive. I am perfectly on time, which is a very impressive feat.         I then get to wait and wait. And wait a little more, until, finally, I see my date. I notice that he probably spent about four minutes, not the ten I’d expected, on his appearance, and I’m already pissed off. I fall out of the car and stomp my way over to him, my only greeting the dazed expression and drool slowly goo-ing out of his mouth. This lets me know better than the stammered “You look…. Nice,” that I get from him, that I look good.         I roll my eyes and turn and head toward the crowd of people already assembling. In an attempt to redeem himself, my date continues on the classic-male style compliments that they seem to expect to warm our hearts with fondness and gratitude. “I mean, you look hot.” He keeps stammering something as I turn and shut him up with one of my patented glares.         “A*****e,” I mutter.
 

Reviews

[Spencer L.]

Hey, why you gotta hate on us men? It's not our fault you gals are crazy. :)
Good story. Very... angry.

Oh, and you were wrong. It really only takes us two minutes to get dressed. two and a half if our jeans are buttons instead of zippers. Three if we have to wear a tie.