White Girl Problems

by Babe Walker

  CUT/COLOR/BLOWOUT

  I pride myself on being a daredevil when it comes to my hair. I have the face for it. I’ve tried it all. Shapes, lengths, extensions, colors. You probably think that having a team of seven (stylist, backup stylist, colorist, roots specialist, extensionist, hairspirationist, hair director/archivist) makes it easy to keep my mane in flawless shape, but you also probably think that getting your hair cut and colored every three months is sufficient upkeep.

  The cut is the most important story your hair will ever tell. It’s all about shape and movement coming together to create a perfect synergy. I’ve worked with an array of haircuts. My hair is constantly evolving, and I don’t let myself get stuck in one look. When I was in grade school, I was all about how I accessorized my haircut. From a crimp, to a full head of beads (to let everyone know that I’d been to Cabo over Christmas break), to baby barrettes, to bejeweled headbands and oversized bows. Then I turned ten, calmed the fuck down, and realized that the haircut itself is the perfect accessory.

  I became obsessed with celebrity hairstyles. I tried everything. I started with The Rachel, then The Gwyneth (circa Brad), then The Meg Ryan (circa City of Angels), The Leo (circa What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?), and then the Slim Shady (a huge mistake but I was young, so I totally got away with it). Obviously, this was a huge learning period for me.

  When I was fourteen, my hairstylist, Tommy, came into my life. He taught me how to streamline my look and base my haircut on my bone structure. He’s a genius, and has been my stylist and confidant ever since. He collects all things leopard print, which makes it super-fun and easy to shop for his Hanukkah gift every year. Our relationship is like a marriage. We don’t always see eye to eye, but at the end of the day the most important thing is our child, aka my hair.

  I’ve used a long layered cut as a canvas for the last eight years or so. It’s the style that best suits me, and it’s easy to build off of. Since returning home from college, I’ve been getting my hair cut every six weeks to maintain my trusted look and ward off split ends (death). As far as color goes, I took my time to experiment when I was young. Now I stick to enhancing my natural hair color, which is a rich brunette, with highlights or lowlights, or ombre highlights. Sometimes I need to go blond for a few weeks here and there, but I generally end up coming back to my signature look.

  Blowouts are a tricky necessity that I require twice weekly, otherwise I feel like I’m living a flat half-life. Also (and this is major), my stylist should always be the one to do my blowout. It’s not just about my hair, it’s about follow-through and professionalism.

  I need to be dealing with one person per appointment because, otherwise, the orders regarding my hair have to be passed from the stylist to the colorist to the assistant, or the fucking assistant’s assistant, or the intern. Interns always, and I mean always, have a blank stare on their face, and the only thing they seem to do right is bring bottles of sparkling water from point A (somewhere) to point B (me). This is going to sound horrible, but if the person handling your blowout looks dumb, then they are dumb. If you suspect that they might be the type to leave the faucet running while they brush their teeth, or talk with their mouth full, then you should just grab your bag and leave the salon.

  On the rare occasion that I’m stuck with one of these ex–American Apparel employees, I always end up having to painstakingly explain what I expect from them. If it’s been a long day, this can bring me close to my breaking point. I’ll tell them:

  “My hair looks healthy, thick, and full, but it is extremely delicate, so I’m going to need lots of volume. Not some va-va-voom, hairsprayed bullshit—real volume that’s going to last. I need you to pin up the hair that’s already been dried, so that it’s not just hanging there, all weighted down, while you’re finishing the rest. If you think you can just use a curly brush, blow my hair dry, and let it go, I’m going to end up raising my voice at someone who was involved in hiring you. Also, I hate it when my hair feels too clean and shiny. It should feel textured and authentic, so use whatever product it takes to make that happen. If my hair is smooth and clean feeling when I walk out the door, it’ll be flat in two hours, and tomorrow it’ll be a greasy mess, and the next day I’ll be on the floor of my therapist’s office feeling very overwhelmed. I need this blowout to last three full days. So, that’s about it. I just don’t want to have to get mad at you.”

  P.S. I’m still on the fence about these new “Blowout Bars” that only offer blowouts. It’s a cute idea, I guess, but I get a little freaked out that one of the employees might snap and shoot someone after doing six thousand blowouts in one day. I don’t want to be around for that.

  MANICURE/PEDICURE

  Hands are beautiful creatures, while feet are gremlins that live on the bottom of the sea. No one said it’s easy to have model-quality hands and feet, but I strive.

  I take incredible care of my hands. The last thing I need is to wake up one morning having a midlife crisis, saying to myself, Babe, you’re twenty-seven, you’re a has-been, and you have the wrinkly hands of a pottery teacher. This fear causes me to keep my hands excessively moisturized at all times. I typically moisturize between 100 and 110 times a day. Nothing sloppy, just a little squeeze of a non-FDA approved French cream that is intended to treat third degree burns. When I’m in cold climates, I sleep with an alarm set on my BlackBerry to go off once a night, so I can wake up and moisturize my hands.

  My first manicurist taught me that hands are a representation of where you’ve been in your life, which I interpreted to mean that a woman’s hands, like her shoes, are the window to her soul. The lines in her hands tell an intricate story, while her nails provide the soundtrack. OMG that’s fucking brilliant. I just came up with that last part myself.

  My choice of nail color represents three things: my mood color at the time, an interpretation of Nature’s seasonal color of the moment, and finally, a touch of influence from the week’s racks at Barneys. With all of this in mind, I allow my trustworthy aura to pick the color. Sometimes my nails want to be fire engine red, and sometimes they want to be minty green, or airbrushed, or buffed with clear polish, or black, or white, or khaki or pastel or whatever, I’m bored of listing colors. I try to get my nails done twice a week, always by the same woman, who executes a consistently clean and bubble-free manicure.

  Pedicures freak me out. I get them because I’m a human being and have no choice, but all things involving feet are touchy with me. You know how your yoga instructor is always talking about the edge of comfort? Well, feet take me to that edge, push me off, and laugh as my body smashes against the rocks. Sorry if that image offends you, it’s all the Björk I’ve been listening to recently. She gets me. Deal with it.

  It’s not that I don’t like a professional’s small and able hands getting in there and releasing the tension from my exhausted body—I love that. What I don’t enjoy is the idea that someone’s whole job, their whole world, is about feet. I always imagine other people’s foot energy all over the pedicurist’s hands, seeping into their fingers and fingernails, and I just can’t. Our feet hold so much life force, you know? The quicker the pedicure the better, if you ask me. Also, taking half a Klonopin with a Diet Coke always helps to ease my nerves.

  The best option I’ve found is to go to Japan, or somewhere closer if you can find it, and treat yourself to a Doctor Fish pedicure. All you have to do is dip your feet in a little tub and a hundred tiny carp fish go to town, nibbling off all the dead skin. It tickles a little bit, and then it feels like your foot is asleep, and then you think you have no feet. I prefer this to someone’s feety little hands all over my sub-ankle region.

  EYEBROWS

  Eyebrows are super-important to me because they’re the accessory that you wear every day of your life. I always keep my eyebrow shape the same, which means they must be waxed at least once every two weeks. My eyebrows tell you that I’m listening to you, but I’m not like, crazy into what you’re saying. Or, wait. Maybe they sa
y that I’m not listening to you, but I’m thinking about something important that you should probably want to know. I can’t remember, but it’s one of those.

  TEETH WHITENING

  White teeth are an absolute must. No fucking around. No matter how many cigarettes I smoke, or how much coffee/red wine/Red Bull/Diet Coke/kombucha I drink, or how many ice cubes I eat as snacks, I am INSISTENT on my teeth glistening. My father has shit teeth (British), and I refuse to fall into that unfair lineage just because I was born into it. Absolutely no way. Not with today’s medical advances. Genevieve thinks I’m crazy to spend so much money on my teeth, but Genevieve doesn’t know what my nightmares look like.

  To achieve a glaring white smile, I have them acid washed, bleached, and lasered. Three different dentists, obviously. If they knew I was getting all three treatments simultaneously, they’d lose their licenses. Whoops.

  MASSAGE

  I find it much more relaxing to have a massage in my own home than to go out into the busy, crazy, sick world and find a spa that can accommodate my body’s hushed needs. (If your house doesn’t have a massage room, then you can repurpose your photo darkroom or home gym into a temporary massage environment.) I get a massage once a week by my masseuse, Aurelia. It’s ninety minutes, usually on Sunday, and it is the cornerstone of my week. Aurelia studied massage technique under the tutelage of Muhammad Ali’s massage therapist, so she knows how to use her body weight to get the job done. I transcend time and space every time Aurelia touches my body. I have her use olive oil as a lubricant because I prefer a toxin-free massage. All in all, it’s a three-hour process that includes my pre-massage dip in the Jacuzzi, actual massage, and post-massage steam/nap.

  LASER HAIR REMOVAL

  There is no such thing as acceptable body hair. The end. Therefore, I have taken it upon myself to systematically get rid of 100 percent of my body hair, because I don’t see the point of having hair anywhere besides on the top of my head, my eyelashes, and eyebrows. I totally get that if you work outside, and you live on a farm in Michigan, or wherever, and you have a penis, you’re going to need a little extra warmth in the winter, so a light fuzz might come in handy. But that is so not me.

  WAXING

  While laser hair removal is great and everything, it’s not foolproof. The hair does grow back, and when that happens, I run to my waxer, Marcia. I can’t stand by while a crop of lone rangers pop up one by one, because eventually it will be a hostile takeover. A little bit of warm wax, and your jungle turns into an opera house.

  PEACH SMOOTHIE (THE VAGACIAL)

  Since I wax, I have to do this. The Peach Smoothie is a facial for your area down there. It feels like your basic facial, if your face was between your legs. You know, the aesthetician gets rid of ingrown hairs, she dabs your vag with exfoliants; there are moments of dread, hints of shame, but ultimately you leave feeling renewed.

  ANAL BLEACHING

  I know most girls don’t like to talk about this, but some guys really love an anal moment. My ex-boyfriend Carter happened to be one of those guys, and he was great in bed, so I was able to get on that train. Anal bleaching isn’t something I’ve always done. In fact, I used to think that only porn stars bleached their brown eyes, but bleaching your back door is one of those things that’s SO LA, OMG that I actually love it. So what? Get off me.

  FACIALS

  When I feel an emptiness in my soul, I’ll usually get a facial. It’s a necessary cleansing ritual that also fulfills my need to glow. When I’m a little greasy, or can’t think of anything to do with my afternoon, a facial is the perfect pick-me-up. Guys are obsessed with their cars being fast, stage moms are obsessed with their kids being famous, and I’m obsessed with my face looking approximately three years younger than the rest of my body. Capiche?

  I’m always trying new facial treatments. Last summer was all about stem cells taken from Norwegian pears; this summer it was all about an exfoliant made from peanut shells harvested in the Ivory Coast. Trying to keep up is not an easy task. Also, not all treatments are a good fit for my delicate face. It’s a gamble. Sometimes I win and sometimes I lose.

  VOODOO SKIN RITUAL

  Okay, this is going to sound kind of funny, but I swear by this ancient Jamaican voodoo skin regression ritual that tightens and rejuvenates your facial skin by tricking your subconscious into believing that you’re younger than you actually are. Mabinty learned this ritual from her grandmother, growing up in Kingston, Jamaica. She does the whole thing while I’m asleep, so I’m not sure exactly what goes down, but I will say that I once woke up in the middle of it and there were three newborn babies on my bed. The babies were not mine, or Mabinty’s, but the next day I felt like I had a brand-new T-zone.

  TATTOO REMOVAL

  At a certain point in my relationship with Robert, Babette, my cunt of an alter ego, thought it would be a good idea to have another guy’s name tattooed on herself. The name Babette chose was Stewart, which, not coincidentally, was Robert’s dad’s name. Needless to say, this was a misstep, and I’ve been in the process of getting this tattoo removed for two years now. Every four to six weeks I take three Valiums, drink at least one vodka OJ, and have Mabinty drive me to the doctor’s office to continue the painful removal process.

  I have other tattoos that I will eventually get over and they will eventually need to be removed, but for now, Stewart is the extent of pain that I can deal with.

  AROMATHERAPY

  Every other weekday morning, I like to wake up inhaling essential oils that have been set out the night before. My aromatherapist, Jules (who is a total doll), prescribed a fantastic and simple lemon juice/fresh lavender/ginger liqueur/bat urine concoction. When it’s been vaporized at the right temperature, inhaling this mixture allows me to wake up feeling mega-refreshed. It also gives me vivid sex dreams starring Jordan Catalano. A must-do for a productive day.

  AIRBRUSH TANNING

  I hate admitting this, but coming clean is a part of my process. I get spray tans with Roman when we’re completely, unbearably, deafeningly depressed. Totally works.

  EYELASH EXTENSIONS

  For events with Persian men in attendance, I get eyelash extensions.

  It’s 5:15. How much weight can I lose by 8:00?

  Genevieve and I were having lunch one day in Beverly Hills, and she was going on and on about her personal trainer and I was ignoring her because I hate it when people brag.

  “I mean, Babe, I have never felt better, slash, looked better in my life,” she was saying. “Look at my arms. No, seriously—look! They’re like, half Pilates arms and half Madonna arms, without being too muscly. I’m telling you, Tony is amazing. Look at my legs. They are starting to look like they did when I was nine. I’ve never been so happy.”

  Blah, blah, blah. I was annoyed, so I started deconstructing my chopped salad into color categories, which is not easy, but beautiful once you’ve done it.

  “And the thing is, he’s so unconventional. He developed his own method of training called The Tony Method.” Gen smiled. “Don’t you want to know what The Tony Method is?”

  I glared at her. “Not really,” I said, pouring a ton of pepper on the rest of my salad, rendering it inedible.

  “Sex, Babe. He literally fucks you into the body of your dreams.”

  “Give me his number.”

  “No way! He’s my trainer and he’s super-exclusive and never takes on new clients. Why don’t you Ask Jeeves?”

  “Give me his number, Gen.”

  “Babe, come on. You’re not even into working out,” she protested.

  “Exactly. I’ve been feeling depressed lately, and I think having a trainer will lift my spirits. Number.”

  “Ugh, fine, I’ll text it to you. I’m seriously hating you right now.”

  The following Tuesday I set up my first appointment with Anthony, aka Tony of The Tony Method, to train me at my home gym. When I got to my gym, he was pissed because I was literally two minutes late. He gave me some big spe
ech that involved me not taking my fitness seriously, him threatening to leave, and something else but I was really over being lectured so I can’t remember what it was. I apologized profusely and told Tony that I was ready to take my body to the next level and that I would do my best to arrive to our sessions on time, and he agreed to train me.

  Tony’s method was as follows: Phase I (Muscle Strengthening), Phase II (Conditioning for Lean Muscle), and Phase III (Total Transformation). All exercises in The Tony Method were performed while being fucked by Tony. He developed this method to build clients’ self-esteem and allow them to hone breathing skills and total body awareness. He believed that, in order to achieve maximum results, a trainer should know his client’s body inside and out. Tony personalized a plan for me based on my request that my body be “Gwyneth meets Gisele meets sample-sized.”

  THE TONY METHOD

  Sample Workout

  Cardio - Bicycle

  Tony positions himself on the stationary bicycle seat, facing forward.

  Mount Tony, facing forward as well.

  Cycle for 20 minutes while working your body up and down on his dick.

  Ass Blaster

  Lie on your back with your hands to your sides and your knees bent and legs spread shoulder-width apart.

  Begin by tightening your core and ass, and lifting your hips to meet Tony’s dick, achieving full penetration for 1 set of 50 reps.

  Repeat in double time 1 set of 25 reps.

  Repeat in triple time 1 set of 25 reps.

  Slow back down to original pace and complete a final set of 50 reps.

  Repeat entire workout 2 more times, one time while keeping the right leg lifted vertically and the next time keeping the left leg lifted vertically.

  The Push-up Pussy Pop

  Roll onto your stomach and lift your body into plank position, keeping your feet wider than shoulder-width apart, and positioning your chest directly over your elbows.