Every time I pick up the newspaper there seems to be a quirky article about the recession and how to save money in these tough economic times. The New York Times Style Section is particularly guilty of trying to cutesy up poverty and the need for most Americans to cut back in style. Instead of buying that new Christian Dior cashmere wrap that costs as much as your nanny’s unpaid yearly health insurance quote, take an old wool blanket, throw it over one shoulder and belt it with a dog leash for fun and furry fashion on a budget. On Martha Stewart’s show yesterday, Martha, the queen of crafts and corruption, tried to convince an audience of sweater set wearing suburbanites that frequenting inexpensive noodles houses in the heart of Manhattan would be a smart economic alternative in these tough times. Just rent a Town Car, put on a cute Thierry Mugler blazer and some off beat Yves Saint Laurent suede boots, cruise to 10th street and Avenue A and save that extra money for when your accountant rapes you like an unarmed prison guard.
I am always looking for corner cutting techniques but I refuse to deny my self the most basic of necessities because the world is falling apart around us, thanks to a large handful of greedy, selfish douche sacks. I can give up the $16 yoga class, the $17 winter pedicure and even the regular hair cut that keeps me from looking like an old mud flap on the back of a pick up truck, as I did this morning. After getting out of the shower today, I realized that my hair is the exact replica of its former self, circa spring of 1989. Living in London and eating my way through bushels of cheese slathered baked potatoes doused with pints of lukewarm ale, my hair was the last thing I was concerned with as I watched my ass morph into that of a pre revolutionary war tree stump in Kensington Gardens.
So what if I am now a mother of a hellion toddler and have reverted back to the lazy, unmanaged curls of youth, complete with the color palette of a college student in the midst of midterms and a crippling depression. My current hair don’t is a grouping of long, wavy strands of neglected indifference. These upstairs tenants might be the first things people see when they approach me but my downstairs neighbors are too unruly to ignore. That sordid tribe of unwanted squatters has to be dealt with regularly and having a large Russian émigré with soft hands and an accent as thick as an oil spill is just the thing for a quick and painful eviction.
For $50 including tip, Zhanna will lie me down on a loud tissue covered table in a room resembling an old gulag interrogation cell and quickly remove any evidence of puberty that might have existed in my very own Bermuda triangle. Between searing applications of molten hot wax and quick, gruesome tugs of the cotton strips, she slowly brings me back to looking like I did when I believed in the tooth fairy, unicorns, and kindness.
I will leave feeling rejuvenated, sticky and as bald as a quail’s egg, more than happy to part with my extra spending money to insure that I do not look like a rabbi doing a handstand. Sure, fifty big ones may seem like a lot to some people but my lower half is Brazilian and I have a duty to keep the South American hedges trimmed and the American husband interested. If I came home looking like a furry centerfold from 1973 my husband might look elsewhere for his carnal knowledge.
Then again, he was a loud and proud, card-carrying member of a group of New Jersey elementary school boys whose first glance at the female Pubic Maximus came from stolen Playboy magazines carefully hidden away in a collection of back yard tree forts up and down route 17. Back when he wore knee high tube socks and a Timex, his idea of sexy was a lovely, long legged lady splayed out on a bearskin rug with a rose in her mouth and a bush the size of a Thanksgiving centerpiece. If that is still his speed and preference and he wants to take a trip down memory lane, I should have enough cash by year’s end to buy that Dior after all.