Who Are You? And Who Am I?

*blink*
*blink*

Well, this is awkward.

Is it possible, or reasonably plausible, that the things some classify as “fake” are really just “extensions” of who we really are?

Before we get off on the wrong foot here, I’m not about to advocate boob jobs for 14 year olds, or mani/pedis for the tween set. Christ, as far as I’m concerned, salons should have the same age requirement as a bar, and plastic surgery should wait until you or someone you’re sleeping with can pay for it.

What I’m really thinking about here are the non-invasive bits. Eyelashes, hair extensions, padded brassieres, “chicken cutlets,” Spanx, acrylic nails (*shudder*), colored contact lenses, that sort of thing.

I love and live in my false eyelashes – when I’m not at my geek-heavy day job that is (for all the obvious “I-read-fantasy-books-and-have-online-love-affairs-with-avatars” reasons). I think it’s a horrible shame that gone are the days when every woman could quickly and accurately apply both liquid eyeliner and a pair of those long, flirtatious lovelies. I feel so alone. *sniffle*

It’s a lost art, really, this business of “making” your face into a unique reflection of who you are. When did we decide that the likes of Anna Wintour got to determine whether or not I show off my baby green eyes to their best Salon Perfect #33 advantage? Perhaps Alessandra Ambrosio and Adriana Lima are listening, but Anna? I can’t hear you!

Seems lately many men have begun referring to these things we do when we play dress-up every day as “false advertising.” Oh sure, when a water bra hits the floor in the dark, it can be startling both in sound and revelation, but as men, are you really going to complain now that you’ve finally lured someone into your bed? Shuuuuuut up already and have an original thought. You’re about to get lucky.

I don’t think these non-invasive “upgrades” are false advertising at all. In fact, I think they’re actually “truth in advertising.” It takes creativity and a solid inner photo to take what we wake up with in the morning, and turn it into something that makes sense to us in the mirror. In my head, I’m a completely different person than the one who presents when I’m brushing my teeth, or racing naked to the laundry room. Admittedly, it’s a younger, less interesting version of me, but nonetheless… it’s who I AM, if we’re defining part of ourselves by how we look… which of course we are… because it’s what we do. Otherwise there would be no bestselling diet books, and no one would’ve called the infomercial operator for a special price on P90X. But I digress…

My point here is that we’re all more than the sum of our naked selves. That’s just the mannequin. We’re the personality in charge of dressing it for the window. There are no rules that say how you do that determines whether or not you’re presenting your most authentic self. There are rules about keeping your butt crack covered and other “social-awareness guidelines” the rest of us would wholly appreciate your adherence to, but after that, why shouldn’t you wear your inside on the outside?

In the spirit of full disclosure, I don’t own a brassiere that’s not underwired and engineered to push up; I rarely leave home without my “cutlets,” I have my natural hair color enhanced, wear ridiculously high heels every day in an effort to make my legs appear longer, and though I don’t own Spanx or colored contacts, I’ve given thought to both. Honestly, what’s the harm in all of it? If the fallout is that men want to do what men want to do at the end of all that production – so be it. Just be sure to keep your clothes in a neat, easily located pile near the door because unless you roam with a catch-all bag, you’re gonna wanna be outta there before he wakes.

*bats eyelashes*