The Price of Pain

“What’s that on your face?!”  My husband stares from behind me in the bathroom mirror with his mouth wide open and eyes bucking from their sockets.  With cleanser foaming all over my face, I’m practicing my nightly routine as I prepare for bed.  He continues on with his confused mumbling.  Shaking his head and moving quickly out of the bathroom.

Since I’ve known him, husband has complained that I’m much too girly with all the do dads and nic- nacs and routines that assist me with preparing for my day. He always asks and refuses to believe that all the tools and rituals are really necessary.  My reply is that if women didn’t do the things that they do to look nice, men would never look their way. He has never admitted to the fact that he indulges in the benefits of my unnecessary work.  He complains but yet appreciates the end results of all my efforts.

The guys in my life seem to never really understand these things.  I learned at a very early age that beauty was a journey of many painful processes that yielded wonderful results.  As I grew older I learned that the journey sometimes is not pleasant and can also go awfully wrong.   It’s just the risk one takes for the desired beauty goal.  From the time I was a little girl, (2 years old) when my mother washed, combed and cornrowed my tender scalp to the hot comb slipping and tapping the tops of my ears during those pressing comb moments, I learned to accept that this was the way of the woman.

 As I’m sure holds true for many women, there are numerous incidents, situations, stories, and scenarios that can be shared about regiments, processes and torture sessions all in the name of beauty.   As a girl I’ve endured the sensation of being choked by turtle neck sweaters and being scratched on the chin by lace trimmed collars.  I’ve repeatedly pulled at knee highs, tights, stockings, and opted for the control top panty hose on those fat feeling days.   I’ve plucked, shaved, trimmed, cut and waxed hair from almost every part of my body.  I’ve had my hair braided, straightened, stitched, glued along with my scalp burning and bleeding from stylist mishaps.  And let’s not count the horrid times that the curling iron slipped and left black marks on my forehead, ears, neck and shoulders.  I’ve been bronzed, blushed, eye lined, lashes glued down & ripped off.  My Ears pierced and pulled low by too heavy, just had to have them and goes perfect with my outfit earrings.    All the girdled, push up, control top, pasty, strapless, adjustable, I can only stand up, but I can’t breathe items that have consumed my life as a woman are numerous.  But the end result is usually worth it.   Or at least I’d like to believe so.

So to my husband and all the other guys standing by wondering what’s going on, to the guy who doesn’t get it, to the man that doesn’t believe all the routines, creams, sprays, and potions are necessary I say, be patient and understanding concerning the time, money, effort and sometimes pain that goes into your wife’s, sister’s, mother’s, daughter’s or girlfriend’s appearance.  Sympathize with the rigorous regiments and be compassionate toward the torture sessions.  Appreciate all we do and don’t forget to compliment the end result.


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