the perfect pucker pout

Avon, 1964.

Avon, 1964.



Like in 1920s-era orphanages where there's a tin tub and the matron takes a bundle of steel wool to your pickpocketing self. And as she's scrubbing she's muttering about what's come of the world with all these runabouts and the solution involves lye and penance. So. Find something less harsh than steel wool but significantly meaner than those poufs that look like wads of cotton candy, and scrub yourself all over until you can hardly stand it. You'll come out soft as a baby and as sinless too.


Apparently there's a thing that takes the hair off your legs and other bits. If you don't pick it up now and then, you'll stick like velcro to your sheets.


Stand up straight. It's the cheapest and most instantaneous way to lose weight, look younger, earn the good cut of clothes, and feel more engaged with the world. Furthermore, quit scowling. And don't pick at your eczema unless you're alone in your car.


You can't mix beer and cherry vodka anymore. Consider how you're taking care of your skin -- if it's the same ritual as you had when you were 23, find someone to slap you across the cheek with a dead haddock. Then set yourself to the task of adjusting, and consistently: moisturize, exfoliate, and use sunscreen. Pond's cold cream, backgammon, Jimmy Dorsey, and lukewarm wheatlets. Whatever works.


Oil, electricity, groceries. Details. Choose to worship one of the following: 1) lingerie; or 2) jeans. Spend the necessary money at the necessarily posh shops. Because it's better to spend $100 on one incredible, British-fitted, kickass bra that will change your whole shape and posture for a year than it is to spend $100 in the same time period on six slouchy, discount-rack, wrong-sized, unflattering floppers and loathe them all. Most of us will be able to make an investment like that sparingly -- like one new pair of jeans every spring or two. But when you do, pass on the mall. Go straight to a Queen Street boutique. Do the annual math of all those failed, worn-three-times impulse buys. Skip them all and buy one good pair instead.


Whenever you feel like you're getting old, take a fifteen-minute wheatlet break outside your local high school. Watch how the kids in there hide behind their hair, bristling in their skin. Note the lack of autonomy, facial pustules, stumbly feet, and desperate aromas. Then stand a little taller, realizing how cool it is to know, finally, at least comparatively, who you are.

* I grabbed the title to make fun of it and then I went back and totally clicked it.

Kate Inglis52 Comments