Christie Mellor - You Look Fine, Really

There is no excellent beauty

that hath not some strangeness

in the proportion.

Francis Bacon, Essays, Of Beauty

Beauty is the only thing

that time cannot harm.

Oscar Wilde

I would like to acknowledge the following friends, cohorts, relatives, and acquaintances: the inspiring women in my life, including Wendy Goldman, Susanna Thompy Thomson, Geri Knorr, Lisa Noyes, Bella Nestour, Martha French, Erika Schickel, Maria Bustillos, Gail Simmons, Marla Strick, Beth Von Benz, Ruth Souza, Garen Tolkin, Marge Aguirre, Alexandra Oliver, Shant Sposato, Jane Mellor, Wendy DeRaud, Janet Travers, Alicia Brandt, Joyce George, and Diana Riesman; Amanda Peppe and the rest of the lovely ladies of Book Group; and to Raz and all my Hoffies; the stellar Leslie Daniels; the most excellent editor, Cassie Jones; my Doozy fellas and the other nice gents in my life; the bestest boys in the world, Edison and Atticus; and the inimitable, ever-supportive, always entertaining Richard Goldman.

W HEN I STARTED WRITING MY LAST BOOK , I REMEMBER BEING stuck at one point. Here I was, well out of my twenties, writing a book that presumed to tell a whole bunch of twentysomethings how to behave. Who were these mysterious twentysomethings, with their YouTube and their eyebrow studs? My husband said to me, Well, you were in your twenties. Nothing has changed all that much. And it was true. And I am a big fan of YouTube, even if I dont have an eyebrow stud. Because, well, ow.

So here I am again, this time writing a book for women. Women of a Certain Age. Women who are over, say, forty. And I know that I can write this book becausenot only am I over forty, I am currently a woman. And a grown-up, apparently. I know I am a grown-up woman, even though I rarely see my particular type of grown-up woman represented in advertisements or on television shows. Its like being an atheist in America. And yet, here I am.

I know women who are absolutely convinced that the job of being a woman requires at the very least a perfect, regular manicure. It requires the blow-drying of hair by a professional, the waxing of various body parts, the costly and expert shaping of eyebrows. Grooming must be done by a team of well-paid specialists. Gifts of jewelry on Valentines Day is a given. High heels are the standard of footwear. I will admit to a certain fondness for lipstick. And yet, high heels? I like the idea of high heels, I just find them a ridiculous concept for actual footwear. Some women are perfectly comfortable walking in high heels, and are able to do so while simultaneously not in any way resembling ducks. I applaud their grace and fortitude.

Deep down I fear that Im not a genuine grown-up because of my lack of grown-up footwear. I wear gallumphing Crocs and rubber flip-flops nearly year-round. I have been known to wear flip-flops with evening dresses. I cannot abide aching feet, no matter how lovely the effect might be; and I prefer to not walk like a duck. I can stand still for a very short while in high heels, but eventually someones going to have to walk across the room to the bar or go find the restroom, and it is just not possible for me to do that in high heels. Surely its not just me and a few scattered ex-hippies and survivalists living off the land in Northern Minnesota?

The dirty little secret is, I think Birkenstocks are comfy and adorable. This opinion, when spoken aloud, causes the most vociferous reaction among women of my acquaintance. They guffaw, they are appalled. My friend Maria is reduced to puddles of laughter. Most women I know seem more at ease with the whole stockings-and-high-heels assemblage than I, who always feels as if Im playing dress-up. Does this mean I have gaps in my girl DNA?

For instance: I do love everything about perfume. I dont love all perfumes, because some are obviously god-awful and can render the sniffer helplessly migrained for hours. But I am utterly seduced by perfume, the idea of perfume, the thought of perfume. A dab of Chanel No. 5 at the wrist, a spot of Creed Rose Bulgari at the neck, a drop of Fracas behind the ear, or a whiff of some exotic citrus rose blend wafting off a mysterious figure as she rounds the corner; I could just eat that up with a spoon. I am similarly smitten by tools, especially a good power drill or jigsaw. Consequently, perfume and power tools have historically been one of my favorite Christmas pairings. One year I received Shalimar and a Makita drill, with the loveliest set of drill bits. Another year, Folavril and a charming pocket-screwdriver device. The following Christmas brought me a tiny bottle of Joy and a small belt sander. Plus four vise grips in my stocking! Heaven.

I find the idea of having what is politely termed a Brazilian wax absolutely horrifying. This has got to be the most painful joke ever perpetrated on the female sex, and how women fell for it I will never know. I am to believe that too much hair in a certain area of my anatomy is a blight, and must be removed immediately and as painfully as possible. I am to lie naked and flat on a table, while a grim Eastern European woman swabs hot wax on that very sensitive area, then proceeds to strip the hair from that area using the strips that have been placed upon the hot wax. Whats next, circumcision? Ritual scarification? Bamboo under the fingernails? Have none of you people heard of razors? Did you know that fine use may be made of your leg razor, should your area need a little extra grooming before swimsuit season? But perhaps you are one of those women who enjoys the hot wax, and who am I to tell you that you are completely whack? Enjoy. Am I really in the minority, as a woman who finds the whole thing uncalled for? Please send reassuring e-mail.