Whenever I’m at friends’ homes, I love sneaking a peak at all the family photos that adorn their walls and mantels. The thought that usually occurs to me during these observations is, “wow, she looks good”, because the truth is, for most women that isn’t a common occurrence. What with all the effort we spend making sure that the children are dressed in clean clothes that don’t clash—and husbands too for that matter—it’s a miracle we leave the house presentable at all.
Nevertheless, we want to ensure that in twenty years, when we look back on these days, our photos won’t give away the truth. So we root in the drawers for the makeup, pull out the curling iron and hairdryer, and presto, we’re transformed into that woman who cared for herself before the kids came and the waist expanded and the wrinkles branched out.
This season is prime time in the family portrait rituals, as we trek to the photo studio to take the Christmas card shot. We choose the snowy backdrop, dress everybody in red, and hope that the kids concentrate on smiling rather than on making fart noises under the table. Thankfully, the camera will likely hide the fact that your son’s suit is too small and your daughter’s tights are falling down, so everybody will look great. Except for your husband.
It’s not that he doesn’t look good; it’s that he looks exactly the same as he always does. Men just don’t change. All they can do to freshen up is to shave or put on new clothes. Other than that, they look pretty much the same all the time, whether they’re going to a job interview or scratching themselves while drinking beer around a fire. Tabloids are always catching female stars unawares, but when’s the last time you saw a shot uncovering what Brad Pitt and Matt Damon really look like? We already know what they really look like. They look the same as they always do.
Two summers ago my husband’s youngest brother married a lovely woman we were very glad to welcome into the Gregoire clan. The females in our family woke up early to prepare for the 1:00 nuptials, and then to supervise the showers and hairdos of the four younger girls. We were at it for hours.
The action in the men’s room was quite different. The groom arrived at noon, the four brothers dressed, and then they had time to pick up something to eat before the wedding an hour later. We were still putting the finishing touches on our hair.
Sure we may not do that everyday, but when push comes to shove, we can primp and polish with the best of them. I think it’s genetic. Little girls have the gene. Most men do not. It’s simply not required.
Around forty, though, reality hits the male gender. It must come as quite a shock. Eyebrows don’t stay eyebrows; they migrate to the tops of the ears and the inside of the nose. And even those that do grow where they’re supposed to begin to grow to absurd lengths, trying to hide in the regular head of hair so they won’t be tweezed out. Thus to their grooming arsenal of razors men now must add a lowly set of tweezers. And they have the temerity to complain about this.
I’m sorry, honey, but try waxing your legs. Or your underarms. I did that once. And once you’ve done one, you have to do the other. It was not a pretty scene.
When we moved into our new house, the girls got the bathroom with the double vanity, I got the cabinets in the second bathroom, and Keith got one small drawer. I think it was fair. After all, my girls are now at the age where a bad hair day can throw off their moods faster than the end of the chocolate chip cookies. They need their space. So the three of us have beauty products galore, and he has a toothbrush and tweezers. We’re looking not too shabby, which you all would know if I ever got around to sending out my Christmas cards. But since I rarely do, you’ll have to take my word for it.
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