let's get real--just how fake are you?

All done. I look in the mirror and sigh with relief as I exclaim to Lisa how much better I look with my brows tweezed and filled in.

Perhaps because I got extensions yesterday...
Perhaps because I watched a documentary on plastic surgery last night...

I have spent quite some time today reflecting on how incredibly altered I am. In fact, my personal list of unedited, unembellished--just plain natural--attributes are admittedly few.

The funny thing is, I have taken pride in how much I adore my "natural" self simply because I don't cake on foundation and scribble on eyeliner to walk out the door. I am fooling myself if I think that refraining from some glob means that I do not partake in high levels of grooming. I might have some exotic Persian DNA, but this olive-complexion has had help.

The truth is, for as laid back and carefree as I am, I am far from all-natural (although my unbrushed hair, distressed boots and haphazard look might suggest otherwise). Ooh, I let my nails chip. Ooh, I haven't shaved my legs in a while. I am so fucking rugged.

Let's get real--I have microdermabrasion once a month, undergo obsessive daily moisturizing, exfoliate like it's my part-time job--and honestly, I list those only because they are minor. The funny thing is, the better you are at being fake, the more natural you look. So why not have an honest discussion?

The real question is, what difference is all of this making? How much of my attention to minutiae is an honest to god result of growing up in Los Angeles? I vividly remember questioning the judgment of a boyfriend because he could not differentiate between my pre- and post-tweezed eyebrows. Was it some sort of visual deficit he had--or can I liken it to the way I react when Monika nags that her eyebrows are disgusting, and I think there could not be more than 3 hairs to pluck. The only difference is that I am pretty much the eyebrow police--so what the hell is Monika smoking?

There are two themes here that must be reckoned with. How appearance is taken for granted, when it is actually the cumulative effect of innumerable alterations, continuous work, and ridiculous resources (fuck the money, I am talking time and energy). But perhaps more interesting is the threshold between noticeable and superfluous grooming--when looking refreshed becomes an endless pursuit of fixing things only you can see.

Truth be told, I have an exquisite eye for detail. And if you don't see something that I see, it is because you are not a connoisseur of nuance. But it is entirely plausible that the joke is on me, because there are a shit load of things I could be doing instead of refining subtleties.

I won't even begin on the gendered implications...or how perverse it is that I do this in complete awareness.