Beauty Tips For The Mentally Deranged

Read on if you are one of the following:

A bad bitch

Living in relative poverty

Lazy femme

A witch

Struggling under the nightmarish oppression of the capitalist patriarchy (hint: you are)

Not likely to be fazed by knowledge of my most intimate and outlandish beauty rituals.

I may have refused to wear a shirt until the age of 11 or 12, and thrown many a tantrum against the hegemony of scratchy tights and underwear, but I've also always been drawn to the girly side of life. Even as a small child, watching my mother get ready, selecting perfume, applying her makeup, brushing her hair, I recognized the power of female beauty rituals: the staking of a claim, the celebration of the mysterious, the cultivation of small, sensual pleasures, the attention to self. In becoming a woman, I felt I had found something worth belonging to and worth fighting for--I had a strong instinct that pursuing the feminine would not weaken me. I saw and still see these routines as one way to navigate a world that is brutally unkind to female bodies and female expression.

Over years of experimentation, I learned how to make my appearance into one tool of many to wield; I learned how to incorporate my sexuality, my contradictions, my personality into a series of coherent looks that I could always rely upon to make me feel better no matter what was happening: the failing grade, a relationship ending, odious social events. During the inevitable dark times, I clung to this cultivation as a life-saving device that helped restore my equilibrium when I’d been knocked on my ass.

Now, I see my beauty routines as a core part of who I am, a core part of the way I choose to fight my way through life. My rituals are my refuge. The care I take with my appearance is how I access my creativity, my subversion, my power, my joy, my don't-give-a-fuck. It's part of how I practice self-care, how I draw boundaries for myself, how I prepare myself for life's challenges. It's how I experience freedom. Every lesson has been hard won. Here's a few of my best.

Get weird with it The only real reason you need to do anything to your appearance is to make yourself happy. If, at the same time, you look hot as fuck constantly and scare the shit out of people (read: men) on a regular basis, all the better. Face glitter on a random Wednesday, mixed patterns, daring hair--there is really nothing too out there that you can’t try at least once. No one is watching you as much as you think. There’s nothing new under the sun--that can depress you or energize you.  Make all the combinations, revisions, and decisions that please you the most and you can’t go wrong. Fear nothing. Trial-and-error is everything. Experimentation is the reason that adorable sweater vests from Goodwill are now safe from me, and fake eyelashes will remain unattached to my body.

Take your time I am rabid about my getting ready time, whether it’s a full hour in the afternoon or the ten minutes before my date gets to the bar or the five minutes in the bathroom before work. That is my time, and god help the person who impinges on it.  Taking my time with my appearance is how I mentally prepare for whatever I’m about to do. Life is very short and goes by very fast. Outfits are how I mark occasions (even the Tuesday farmer's market) and how I celebrate myself. Also, getting ready is fucking fun. I put on music, arrange all my tools in front of me, sashay around the room gazing at myself in the mirror, noticing each tactile step: pulling on my tights, my fingers on my face, that split-second wetness of fresh mascara, the way my hair smells while I’m drying it. Claiming my time and my right to use it however I wish is powerful. No one else tells me when I’m ready but me.

Dirty as you wanna be Most of the time, my finished look is pretty damn girly, and if not exactly conservative, contains some element of class and restraint. But I only cultivate that by channeling my inner beast. You know, the one whose hair gets that sheen from the potato chip crumbs in her bed and crazy afternoon sex. The one with secretly ripped tights and menstrual blood underneath her fingernails.  Being a little wild and frankly, gross with some of my beauty rituals frees my spirit. Digging the dirt means I have to be more inventive--the quickly unsmeared eyeliner from the night before, the half-damp paper towel used in the bathroom to bring a flush to my cheeks. The curiously effective exfoliation from the dirt trapped in the lipstick rolling around the bottom of my bag. Embracing filth keeps me from becoming a slave to my beauty standards--I know how to find a way to look as good as I want to even when I've spent the day tramping around the woods, driven a car through the night, been caught in a rain-storm, or just slept through my alarm. Beauty becomes a survival strategy for me in this way, makes me into less of a weird slob and more of a dirty-haired, no bra, dark-circles hungover witch who’s gonna ride her red-wine stained lips into history.

Feel your way Looking good is feeling good, and vice versa. Sometimes I look my hottest when I'm actually feeling sad as shit, because I use my beauty arsenal to work out my feelings and adjust my look accordingly, and I use my feelings to adjust my beauty arsenal. Confrontations with roommates require muscle tees and braided hair. Drab afternoons when I've spent all day in bed require short, tight dresses and unruly waves. When I feel out-of-control I bring out the fancy underwear, collared shirts, and slightly binding mini-skirts. Feeling picked on and I go for baggy jeans, pale colors, and extra lipstick. Thick eyeliner and perfume when I'm meeting someone new. Anger is obviously a black dress. Feeling your way means wearing lacy tights because i like how they feel when I'm sliding myself into my lover's car, or asking myself what Buffy would wear to work if she also had to bus tables for a living. I have a coat I wear when I need to feel like a rich, impossible bitch and one I wear when I need to feel like a country fairy-tale princess. I've busted more than one bad mood just by putting my hair in a side ponytail.

Damn the man The man is out to get you to buy as much shit as possible, unrelentingly and without exception, from now until civilization collapses (so only a few weeks left to go). Don’t throw good money after bad and spend your hard-earned cash when you don’t need to. Shampoo is body wash. Conditioner is shaving cream, lipstick is blush, men’s razors are cheaper, fingers are just as good as most any makeup brush. I aspire to buy only all-organic fair-trade locally-sourced unicorn-tested products but until that happy day arrives most of my beauty shit comes from the dollar store or the grocery store. Baking soda, coconut oil, vaseline, sea salt, witch hazel, apple cider vinegar are some of my cheap go-tos. You can make a delightful scrub just using some sugar and the coffee grounds you were going to throw away (er, compost) anyway. Sticking to the drug-store, combining/re-purposing products, or making my own shit helps me stave off the class envy and depression I go through looking at the Sephora website and keeps me able to afford all the lavender oil my anxious little heart requires.

Be a healthy-ass evolved bitch Being hot is about a lot more than products. It’s not even really about technique. Being hot is a state of mind. When I do push-ups while I’m getting ready, or meditate to the sound of my blow-dryer, I’m getting myself into an optimal state of hotness.  I take my vitamins while I get ready, create mantras, fantasize about my writing, drink huge jars of water, put garlic everywhere (yes, there) stretch and move, light incense and pray. When I eat a really good meal I feel it in my hair, no joke. So use your beauty routine to get right with yourself and become stronger. Masturbate before you get ready. Dance. Make your shower a crazy sacred temple where there’s always a  candle ready to be lit and you’re allowed to think anything you want.  I had a boyfriend who hated when I wore makeup, another one who nearly cried when I cut my hair, another who forbid me from wearing sheer tops. Every time I shake my ass in my mirror, put on red lipstick, take off a layer someone else might want me to leave on, every time I take a risk or a breath, I’m setting myself free.