I’m not very good at being a girly girl. I just didn't get that gene.
For instance, no matter how many
times I’ve had my hair stylist show me how to fix my hair, when I
try – usually the very next day – it becomes apparent that I can barely hold a hair drier.
I also don’t
know how to put on make-up. I try to pay attention to the ladies
at the make-up counter, but it is never the same when I do it. I end up looking
like The Cure’s Robert Smith, Or Raggedy Ann.
My friend Annie, has her own, very successful line of
make-up (Katherine Cosmetics, it’s fantastic), has even given up on me.
Actually, that’s not true – she tossed some mascara and lipstick my way and
muttered “Good luck,” while she walked away, shaking her head sadly.
My mom was never a role model in this department. Sure she, could toss on some pearls, lipstick and look pretty good, but she rarely did and
certainly never taught me. In my defense, I don’t own any pearls, and if I did, I’d
probably hock them to pay for my vet bills.
The horses may be another excuse for my lack of style. It’s hard to look even
vaguely glamorous, after spending the morning mucking stalls and de-shedding
the wooliest horses in the West. Honestly, the temperature barely dropped below
20 degrees all winter, and my herd grew enough fur to keep them warm in the
Arctic. Now that it’s spring, the hair is all falling out, and most of it is falling
on me.
Even when I’m freshly showered and sporting clean, de-linted clothing, the tell-tale signs of the slob life follow me. Recently I was at the
racetrack very early in the morning. I was feeling pretty good – I was clean, freshly
pressed and had even slapped on some of Annie’s mascara. I was feeling
confident enough to chat with Bob Baffert about American Pharoah.
I had fed my horses before I left the house, and when I reached into my pocket for something, a mound of hay fell on the ground.
There was a moment of silence while we both watched the stalks of alfalfa
gently float to the ground. He was polite, but slowly started backing away from me mid-sentence. Sigh.
I have managed to get it together a few times in my
life. Usually it’s for a wedding I’m bridesmaiding in, and the bride provided a friend to do hair and makeup. Once for a wedding in Hawaii I even
had a mani-pedi. I was in my 40s and it was my first. Seriously.
I rarely bother with my nails because, well, with horses and dogs, long nails don’t last. For some reason, the other
day I decided to try again. I had to choose among the three nail salons
in a four block radius of my house. I picked the one on my corner since it was closest. The lady was
very nice, and my nails looked terrific, though she recoiled in horror when
I reached into my purse for my keys.
She was right. By the time I had walked the half block from
the nail salon to my house, I had somehow chipped and smudged the polish on all
ten fingers.
Many of the women I ride with have perfect fake nails. They never seem to break or chip or look like
they were digging holes by hand. These same ladies – all lovely and
good friends - also discuss shopping. Which they like to do. A lot.
Shopping is another thing I’m not particularly good at. I’m
pretty much a Target/Gap girl. I zip in and out and I’m done. If I’m really
feeling fancy I’ll go to Nordstrom Rack. For ten minutes max.
Not my barn friends. They talk about stores and boutiques and
designers that I’ve never heard of, but they all nod knowingly when someone mentions
them. They buy La Perla underwear. I had to look that one up.
It’s just as well. With five horses and three dogs, I don’t
have the money or time to be a girly-girl. But if anyone ever needs a model for
the ‘don’t give a fuck’ look (which in my life immediately followed the ‘grunge’
look), I’m your gal. I have it down.
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