For the longest time, I was such a tomboy. When I was young, I liked wearing boys’ clothing, especially dungarees and anything that had a whiff of equestrian about it. I never sought out girlie stuff, and no one in my family seemed interested in directing me toward it; my sister was given lacy pajamas for gifts and I got—honestly, I can’t remember, but I sure didn’t get lacy pajamas. Maybe I got a pet mouse, or supplies for my pet mouse, or something else that was not feminine or fussy or pretty.
I remember the first time I went for a manicure, when I was living in New York and a nail salon had opened in the ground floor of my building. Back then, manicures cost—I’m not kidding—eight bucks. I don’t remember why I decided to get one after a lifetime of never getting my nails done, but maybe the fact that it was so cheap convinced me it was worth a try. I remember sitting in the salon and realizing that I had somehow never dialed into the many, many rituals and ministrations of womanhood, like manicures, and I was simultaneously relieved that I hadn’t sunk all that time and money into it and kind of rattled that I hadn’t realized it was something I maybe should consider doing.
Of course, I instantly fell in love with the way my nails looked. They were short—no matter what, I can’t stand long nails—but they were as lacquered as an expensive car and shiny and shockingly red. I also loved the way they smelled: I have a weakness for chemical smells like Magic Markers and, back in the day, mimeograph paper. Also, gasoline. Anyway, I realized I had opened a can of worms, that I might get very used to having my nails done. There was a lot of cognitive dissonance at play. I still felt as tomboyish and sporty as I had as a kid, but I really dug the look of my nails, when I had never given them any thought at all before.
I still don’t quite have the patience or the appetite for many beauty rituals. The tyranny of manicures started to drive me crazy: by that I mean that I only liked my nails to be slick and unchipped, and that meant a lot of maintenance. Sometimes I thought of them as ten little pets that I had to care for—and then I admitted to myself that I would rather have ten actual pets. I fell under the spell of gel manicures, which are nearly indestructible, but that means they are really almost impossible to remove. One day, at the salon to change out my gels, as I was soaking my hands in ACETONE before the manicurist took a drill with an abrasive wheel and sheared off the polish—really, that’s the only way to remove gel polish—I had a moment of insight and thought, what the actual fuck??! That was my last gel polish, and in fact my last manicure. I decided to go bareback for a while, and even though after years of having crimson nails, my natural nails look sickly pale, I got used to it.
I’ve acquired a few other grooming obsessions that I’m not inclined to give up, chief among them eyelash extensions, which are almost as big a hassle as manicures but are so wildly enhancing that I’m absolutely hooked. Miraculously, an eyelash place opened just down the street; the name, in Japanese, translates roughly as Miss Cutie. Never would I have pictured myself thus but there you go.
SHOW NOTES
—I just stumbled onto a Korean brand called Open YY that looks interesting. Lots of chopped, asymmetrical pieces that seem very wearable. I ordered a few things (a sweater, a top or two) from SSENSE. I’ll let you know how they work out!
—I’m doing a big closet clean-out, which is overdue, but I like to wait for the purge mood to strike, when I can coldly assess whether an item deserves space in my small closet. My greatest weakness is buying things for a life I don’t lead, i.e., a life in which I go to an office regularly and need to look like a pro. There’s a very specific office vibe that sometimes pulls me in—vests, trousers, smart heels, worsted wool. I don’t know why. I haven’t worked in an office in decades, and even then, it was the New Yorker offices, which were famously underdressed and didn’t call at all for, say, a skirt suit or anything remotely like that. But sometimes I fall for that look—the “I’m a lady architect” look, and I always regret it. I get nicely dressed every day, but my office is in my backyard and I have no clients. I don’t need officey clothes!! And yet I buy them, and then I realize my mistake and I purge them. I’ve been a writer full-time since 1978. You’d think I’d learn.
—What I won’t be purging, ever: My Antipast sweaters. My Tibi double-waisted jeans. My Issey Miyake tops. My Uniqlo stuff—all of it! Most of my Comme des Garcons, except a few items that work in NY but are entirely too much muchness for Los Angeles. Anything I have by Sacai. I could go on.
—I’ve had several false starts with contemporary books lately, and that always makes me feel like I’ll never find another good new book, so my solution is to read a classic—either one I haven’t read in years or maybe have never read. I’m thinking of Winesburg, Ohio or maybe the Pat Barker trilogy (still pretty fresh in my mind, but since I’m just finishing the Paul Fussell WWI book, it would be perfect). Then I’ll tiptoe back to something recent, but since these last few haven’t lit me on fire, I want something I know will be great.
—Apologies for the long stretch between posts! I was so jet-lagged after returning from Israel that it’s taken me a few days to get back in gear. I’m usually a jet-lag master, but coming west is much harder than going east, and it sneaked up on me.
More soon xSusan
You in your cowboy splendor -- made me smile. Love this!
I kind of feel sorry for people who never experienced the mimeograph machine, the purple letters and that smell. Divine. I like a whiff of Clorox. At bath and body works, I stock up on clean linen smells. Jo Malone has some great products, too.