The following is an excerpt from Getting the Pretty Back: Friendship, Family, and Finding the Perfect Lipstick by Molly Ringwald — yes, THAT Molly Ringwald — which is on stands today.
When I was seven years old, I was a tall leggy kid with short shaggy hair and permanently stubbed toes, and for a good deal of time I sported a woman’s stocking (my mother’s) attached to the top of my head with two precisely crisscrossed bobby pins. This seemed to be, in my seven-year-old brain, the best solution as to how to exist in California in the seventies with a gorgeous blue-eyed older sister with long blond hair. I was sure that she knew how it tortured me as I lay on the bed and watched her brush her long straight tresses, and then flip it back over to have it land on her back, as if in slow motion. I was mesmerized by the perfection of it. It was the perfect color, the perfect weight. It even smelled nice. (Farrah Fawcett Shampoo, which I’m pretty sure was just Herbal Essences with a picture of Farrah stuck on the bottle.) I asked my mother if I could grow my hair out like my sister’s. Keep reading »
I recently went on a “Bachelor”-watching binge. Although I don’t like to think of myself as someone who would enjoy the show, I also don’t like to think of myself as someone who would eat chocolate cake out of the garbage or sleep with a stranger while in an alcohol-induced blackout, so clearly what I think isn’t nearly as important as what I do. I may have stopped drinking and binge eating some twenty years ago, but I happily hunkered down with my remote control to indulge in some real escapism.
The first thing I love to hate about this show is the premise—essentially, that it’s possible to find true love on reality television. I mean, doesn’t the idea of one man test-driving twenty-five beautiful women at once sound more like a polyamorous play date than an honest attempt at finding one’s soul mate? But hey, I guess that’s hardly the point. We all know that reality shows are to real life what Pringles are to the potato, and “The Bachelor” is not exactly what I would call soul food. I guess I’m just a hapless—er, hopeless—romantic at heart, who resents myself for still wanting to buy into “The Bachelor”’s premise and believe in the possibility of a happy ending.
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