by Grace Helbig
grace expectations
HAIR + MAKEUP
Makeup can say a lot about a person.
It’s a great way to express yourself and your style, and an equally great way to accidentally give someone the wrong impression. Your makeup is like a Google Translate between your “essence” and the rest of the world’s eager-to-judge-ness.
But I’m here to help. And by now we know that I’m an expert on all things beauty. I wrote a book on it and that’s the only qualification necessary to be an expert in my book (literally). So here’s what I think your makeup could say about you (individual results may vary).
Lips
Bold Red: I’m confident, I think. Please don’t ask me to eat or drink anything that can’t be sucked through a straw. I love Taylor Swift, but I also loathe Taylor Swift. She’s not that great, you guys. I could do what she does. I took guitar lessons! I mean, one time I hooked up with a guy who looked like Jack White. Still counts. I’m (trying to be) exciting and mysterious, but if you try any butt stuff, I’ll be, like, really sad for days.
Trendy Pink: Yes, I’ve S’d a bounty of Ds, so what? F*cK YOu. Sike, I wouldn’t f*ck you with a ten-foot pole. And yes, I’ve f*cked a man with a ten-foot pole. JeaLOus? Please be my friend. I only eat cranberries. And the moon makes me sad because all it does is continue to circle around the earth and the earth won’t even give it the time of day. Literally. I mean sHuT uP. But srsly, will you be my maid of honor when I get married? I don’t mean now. OHmYGOD YOu DOn’T eVen LIsTen. I love you! Can I get a double sugar-free Red Bull with triple vodka?
Classic Coral: I could be sixteen, I could be sixty. I’m a wild card. I desperately don’t want to be alone. I’m allergic to sauces. Truthfully, I’m just trying to keep up with the Kardashians. I can be sexy, I swear. I’m all about good, clean fun and good, clean fuc-accIa BreaD I JusT sTUBBeD mY TOe. I’m a little clumsy. I forgot I have youth group in the morning. Bye. Don’t touch me.
Any Color Outside the Pink/Purple/Red Family: I will ruin you . . . as soon as my Ecstasy wears off and I finish eating the loose pieces of Cinnamon Toast Crunch I found at the bottom of my clear backpack. That, or I fell asleep on my master’s thesis while the Wite-Out was still wet. I guess you could say I’m old-school *modest giggle*. Also, by “master’s thesis,” I mean I have a master and he’s writing his thesis. I’m into some weird sex-fetish stuff. But I love cooking.
No Lipstick: I’d rather enhance my brain with thoughts.
Or:
I’m running late, so I pinch my lips to make it look like I put stuff on them.
Eyes
Black Winged-Out Liner: I’m mysterious-ish. I don’t know how to smize, but when I do this to my eyes, it looks like I do. I love art and bands and whiskey. No, I’ll have a margarita, please. I had a fashion blog for a second. I only watch Natalie Portman movies. I’m allergic to potatoes. I’m a vegetarian and you should be, too . . . unless we go to Benihana, then I HaVe to get the teriyaki chicken. I tried to make my own soap and it gave me a rash. I buy magazines and take photos of them next to my GIanT sunglasses to post on Instagram, but I never read them. I don’t wear the sunglasses, either. One time I pooped in a trash can. I’m so crazy.
Smokey Eye + Fake Eyelashes: OMG, stop staring. Hello? Look at me! Stop staring! Seriously, look! Now stop it. I had a weird childhood and one too many Cosmos (meaning one), and I’ll tell you all about it. One time Mom told me if you put your head in the toilet you can hear the ocean and that’s why I don’t pee in public bathrooms. I’m famous on Instagram. I used a corn dog as a tampon once. I got straight A’s in high school, but I don’t tell anyone. One time I thought I was at a party at Aaron Carter’s house, but it turns out it was a Dave & Buster’s. I love hot yoga, hot pants, and hot dogs. But not corn dogs. Did I tell you about the tampon thing?
Bright-Colored Eyeliner: I have an art gallery with an exhibit of dirty socks at the moment. I only eat cheese. Both of my parents are grounded, well-adjusted doctors, but I come from struggle. I love The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. I didn’t wear pants for six months when I was twenty. I don’t own a TV. (I own an Apple TV.) I secretly love Nickelback. I’m afraid of singularity, unconscious consumption, and gross birds.
Simple Mascara: I’m super chill. I’m also really difficult. I respect your opinions but I just know they’re wrong. I love traveling but I hate crowds and adventure and dirt. My design aesthetic is white. My insides are dark. I’m totally a feminist but that girl over there looks really slutty. I’ve broken my tailbone six times. When I was eighteen I got a tattoo in Chinese letters that I thought said “free” but apparently it says “fudge.” I love yogurt. I sneeze a lot during sex. I took a field trip to the zoo in sixth grade and a peacock sh*t on my Birkenstocks. I’m against zoos but I love laughing.
Glittery Sparkly Disco-Ball-esque: I make a lot of mistakes but it’s okay because I know my cryptic religious icon forgives. I’ve been in twenty-eight beauty pageants and I haven’t won any yet because my cryptic religious icon doesn’t think it’s my time. I eat macaroni and cheese for breakfast. My feet are dyslexic. Oprah, Ryan Seacrest, and Dora the Explorer are inspirations to me. I fell off of a Segway last summer. I’ve been catfished twice, but the second time didn’t really count because it was a dog. I think Nicki Minaj is a role model. I love the WWE. I love supporting charity—I sponsored a toucan in the rain forest last month.
the bad-hair-day character wheel
HAIR TODAY, STILL HERE TOMORROW
Bad hair days happen to the best of us.
It’s how we know we’re humans and not Barbie dolls—a valuable life lesson indeed.
On those days it’s immediately clear that we’re not going to be the best versions of ourselves; instead we need to choose an alternative. How are we going to salvage this scenario?
This can get really frustrating if you let it. Instead, the best way to handle these types of low-stakes situations is to turn them into a game. Therefore, I’ve developed the Bad-Hair-Day Character Wheel.
Whether you know it or not, these are all of the character types we automatically assume when we have bad hair days. So rather than fight this fate, let’s look at it as an opportunity to play out the characters to the best of our abilities. When you wake up and you know your tendrils are against you, spin your Bad-Hair-Day Character Wheel and embrace the outcome.
HERE ARE YOUR POTENTIAL PERSONALITIES
Debonair Detective: Yes, you’re wearing a hat. Not because your hair is helpless, but because you’re naturally stylish, serious, and mysterious. You’re a modern-day Carmen Sandiego. But when someone younger than twenty-six asks you who Carmen Sandiego is, you tell them you’re Vanessa Hudgens. You’re dashing and daring and could end up at Coachella at any moment. The fashion police can’t touch your crime-solving style. No one knows if you’re a real-life Bond Girl or the most stylish person in Witness Protection. But that’s how you like it. Hats off to those who figure you out.
HOW-TO: Put on a fedora, felt hat, or other wide-brimmed hat and push all your hair to one side, in either a braid or a loose ponytail.
Braided Bohemian: It looks like fairies broke into your perfectly dimly lit, tulle-netted canopy bed in the middle of the night and braided your hair into an effortlessly beautiful mess. Your flawlessly flawed braid sits atop your unruly but utterly clean locks with a free-spirited presence. Jury’s out on whether you’re about to wed an unconventional companion in a field of daffodils or about to go to the bank. Braids look way more complicated than they actually are; today you want people to see you like they see your braids. You’re cool (but complicated), you’re effortless (but affected), and you look like you walked right out of a music festival (but you’ve never been away from your iPhone long enough to experience anything IRL). It’s all about the woven illusion.
HOW-TO: Separate your hair into pigtails and braid; cross braids on top of your head and pin into place; pull out loose strands of hair for an advanced bohemian appea
rance.
Pinterest Princess: Much like the Braided Bohemian, your style screams, “I woke up like this.” Though you don’t rely on the classic braid as your base, your tousled tresses suggest you were too busy making dairy-free dream catchers to bother with a flatiron. Your hairdo looks hippie hapless, not completely hopeless. You have a messy mysteriousness to you that looks accidental, but only you and I need to know that it’s a by-product of your bad hair day. The rest of the world can keep on assuming you’re either the CEO of Urban Outfitters or some crazy successful social-media-driven street musician.
HOW-TO: Google search chic, boho hairstyles on Pinterest, try to copy.
The Face of Fitness: That messy updo you’re sporting leans more toward sports than special occasion. So roll with the punches. Put on some yoga pants and let everyone assume you’ve been throwing punches all morning rather than your reality of getting knocked out by the spiked punch last night. You’re gonna wear a sports bra and a tired expression anyway, why not accessorize it with a Nalgene bottle and create the complete fitness front? Let that sloppy ponytail suggest that you’re a Lululemon-outfitted yoga freak, not that you drank too many lemon-drop martinis and spent the night with a Yogi Bear freak. Just make sure you keep your hangover puke down, dawg. (I know that terrible joke probably made you vomit anyway. I’m sorry.)
HOW-TO: Pull hair into a ponytail, spray loose ends with texturizing spray or dry shampoo.
Domestic Goddess: Yes, your hair is a mountain of mess. But in combination with those perfectly distressed “boyfriend jeans” and some mascara, the masses now think you had a long weekend of HGTV-esque renovations on your spare room while throwing the perfect post-dinner-party-leftovers brunch. No one would dare judge your second-thought strands, assuming it’s from the loads of laundry you did while maintaining your manicure. You’re Goop personified. Yeah, your roots are dirty, but so are the martinis you make. And no one complains about them. You’re redefining what it means to be a domestic goddess, but you’d never let that define you.
HOW-TO: Gather hair into a messy bun, pull out random strands around your face, add a bandanna if desired.
Animal from the Muppets: You let it all hang out. Your sloppy, floppy style paired with your own lack of embarrassment about it is appealing. You create a chaos that is charismatic, a frenzy that’s friendly, and a disarray that’s so damn desirable. Remember Animal from the Muppets wasn’t just a maniac: he was a talented musician. Create a character ruled by her passion rather than her fashion.
HOW-TO: Spray your hair with dry shampoo or texturizing spray; do nothing.
THE SWEATPANTS DIARIES #3
Saturday, Oct. 24, 2015
Dear Diary,
I can’t believe it’s been a month since we last talked. I’m sorry; time has been flying by here. And there’s so much to catch you up on that I don’t know where to start.
Previously, in my diary . . .
The last month has been a whirlwind. The building seems to get bigger and more crowded each day, but I’ve been managing. My class schedule took a second to get used to, but it’s okay now. Each day everyone starts in their assigned department stores. I’m in Nordstrom. Which kinda sucks because it’s mostly a lot of uptight, skintight formal wear and stilettos in there with me, so I usually just draw in my strings and try to go unnoticed.
The rest of my class schedule isn’t too bad. On Mondays, I have history at American Apparel; Tuesdays are English at Barnes & Noble; Wednesdays it’s tech ed at Best Buy; Thursdays are health and wellness at GNC; and Fridays I have advanced outdoor discovery at L.L.Bean. Most freshmen sportswear start their athletic studies at Foot Locker, but after reading my entrance essay about the plight of synthetic fabrics afflicted with grass stains, the administration moved me into the advanced class. Which works out awesomely because Birk and Rees are in the class, too! On Saturdays and Sundays, all the freshmen are required to take a class in fashion retail studies, and this semester I’m in Hollister. Which is fine, except I’m the biggest piece of fabric in the whole store and I feel like an ogre. And all the upper-class flannels, who are constantly hungover, just want to turn the lights down and play loud music, so no actual work gets done. Instead, it’s usually me, by myself, counting gold armbands in the back of the store while a bunch of halter tops and beanies lie around pretending they love whatever annoyingly loud song is playing.
Outside of class, I’ve been spending most of my free time with Birk and Rees. They’ve taught me how to snag extra buffalo sauce from the kitchen of Buffalo Wild Wings; shown me where the cleanest public bathrooms are (the kids’ section of Barnes & Noble); and even made me a spare key to their secret hideout. They call it their Dream Den—it’s the back room of the Hallmark store, where they go to burn incense, listen to CDs of whale sounds, and talk about life while huffing apple-pie candles. The three of us have been meeting in the Dream Den on Wednesdays and Fridays for the past few weeks to talk about our life plan, and we’ve been meeting in our “BFF” to work out our current big plan.
Grace’s sweatpants with five different tops!
SHI(R)T! The big plan! OMG, I HAVEN’T TOLD YOU! Sorry, fictional source of guidance, I haven’t filled you in on any of it! I’m an idiot. I’m also sweatpants. I’ve been so tied up in my own emotional world that I forgot to fill you in on the bigger updates. I also forgot to work on my puns. Now may I offer you a cart so you can store some of the deep layers of knowledge I’m about to drop on you?
As you know, soon after meeting Rees and Birk, I carelessly dropped the term “Black Friday.” But what you don’t know is that they quickly encouraged me to never utter those words in the public areas of the MOA again. Yes, the first Friday of the semester they showed me their adolescent “Dream Den,” but the second Friday they showed me their more advanced “Brain Fart Fort,” an area beneath the Alpaca Connection (yes, an actual store in the MOA), where all the underground stuff goes down. The Alpaca Connection is a store located in between a Nail Trix and a MasterCuts. No one questions anything about the store because no one knows anything about alpacas. Classic Minnesota.
The Brain Fart Fort, or BFF as it is known in the MOA, is a dark market of liberal ideas. It’s the place where people can post their open-minded opinions and establish public forums for radical ideas. It’s a place to protest freely, to gripe legally, and to complain generously.
What I didn’t know was that the BFF is a hotbed of Black Friday activity. Birk and Rees first brought me there after my second L.L.Bean class, in which we learned the value of investing in a puffy vest. After an inTENTs lesson about reinventing your tent, I thought I was heading to the Dream Den with Birk and Rees, but instead they brought me to the Alpaca Connection. I asked, “Why are we here?” And they said, “Because you’re the missing piece.” I immediately thought we all must have huffed too hard on a hard-cider candle, but they pushed me into a back room and sat me in a dark corner. I started to detect some movement nearby. When my sight settled, I noticed I was in a room with a couple pairs of clogs, a couple pairs of ripped Sears jeggings, and a couple pairs of panty hose. It was a room of misfit outfits. I thought I was being smuggled into a fashion graveyard, but then I remembered that I come from an extremely poor family, so there’s no way they could hold me for ransom. After all of my absurd anxiety cleared, I finally whispered, “What do you mean?” and a familiar voice replied. “We’re not mean,” it said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
It was the voice of Dr. Scholls.
Ack, someone just threw a red-lined receipt paper roll through my storage door, Diary! That’s a very bad sign! Diary, I should just close you right now, but I feel a need to continue to explain the underlying gang warfare, or crew spews, that happen at the MOA. The “threads” versus the “snips” is one of the most infamous rivalries. For years they’ve butted threads, but they had one day of peace years ago, a day called Black Fri— I gotta go, Diary!
Sincerely,
Sweatpants
; Grace’s one top with three different pairs of sweatpants!
choosing glasses
HOW TO FRAME YOUR MEAT MASK
Glasses and sunglasses are lovely accessories
that can add layers of style to your look with minimal effort. Growing up, I always thought glasses were so cool. So cool, in fact, that in third grade I cheated on my eye test so it seemed like my vision was impaired and I could get them. But I was such a nerd about getting in trouble, or “found out,” that instead of just saying a different letter than the ones they showed me in the eye machine, I squinted hard enough so each letter would look like a different letter and I wouldn’t actually be lying about what I saw.
I ended up getting glasses but only used them for about a year. My prescription was so minimal that my lenses were practically clear plastic. But it turns out if you don’t need glasses, even the tiniest prescription will give you headaches. Which is what started happening to me until I stopped wearing them altogether.
I still think glasses are so cool. I have a couple fake pairs that I’m ashamed to admit I wear sometimes when I travel or when I write. Something about them makes me feel smarter, more cultured and more capable . . . of bullsh*tting myself.
Sunglasses, on the other hand, are glasses I’m allowed to wear without shame! And I do. I’ve collected and lost so many pairs as an adult that it’s become a game to see where they turn up. I could have five pairs one day, zero pairs the next day, and fifteen pairs sitting in the trunk of my car the day after that.
There are plenty of magazine articles and blog posts that teach you which frames are the most flattering on different face shapes. But there aren’t a lot of places that tell you which shapes you should avoid. Thank God I’m here.