The Dead Sea Salt Story: Part 1

The great thing about being a guy is we're generally very low maintenance. We don't care about make-up or nails or dying our hair or whether or not short bangs are in this season. We don't give a rat's ass how big our pores are or if we have ashy elbows or manscaped eyebrows. If it was even a choice we made, I would call it liberating, but it's not a choice. Nature or nurture, we just don't care. Deodorant, brushed teeth, a dollop of pomade, and we're ready to go. These are the bare essentials. And that's if we think we might get laid. Remove the possibility of sex from the equation and things get dicey, quick. It's not at all uncommon to go days without showering, shaving or changing clothes. How much time and product are you willing to waste for vanity's sake? What does it say about self-worth if the version of you that rolls out of bed in the morning is unrecognizable from the version you share with the world? 

I remember times in high school when I would feel embarrassed if I realized I wore the same shirt two times in the same week. Einstein famously owned seven sets of the exact same clothes so he never wasted an ounce of brainpower deciding what to wear. This factoid might have been comforting to one of my ex-girlfriends, who no doubt would have been spared a great deal of shame and public humiliation if only she was as self-actualized as Bert Einstein. It happened in middle school, and she did something that landed her in hot water with the folks. I can't remember what, but that's not important. There was no doubt she was going to be grounded, but I honest to God think she would have rather had her old man go Joe Jackson on her ass than receive what I think is the greatest punishment in the history of kids getting punished: Her parents bought her a new outfit, and made her wear it to school every day for two weeks. Fucking genius. It was a normal outfit, and laundered every night. And still the humiliation was almost unbearable for her. And even I can empathize with that.

So, as a "guy," why do I own $60 worth of dead sea salt scrub and skin renewal facial peel? Well, I don't. I own $115 worth of dead sea salt scrub and skin renewal facial peel that I was fortunate enough to only pay $60 for because I sweet-talked the pants off the sales girl. If you believe that, feel free to stop reading now.

Allow me to set the scene. 

It's a few days after Christmas, my bank account is looking pretty stable for once, and I've got a stack of gift cards burning a hole in my pocket. I'm in the process of moving into a townhouse in a very swanky part of town, and me and my mates are planning a New Year's Eve bash, the likes of which will hopefully set the tone for the best twelve months of my life. Not only that, but I'm making it my mission to get some action on New Year's. Last year, I got into an incredibly embarrassing blow-out with my now ex-girlfriend around 11:45 PM. This resulted in her calling her dad to pick her up and me watching the ball drop without getting so much as a peck on the cheek while post-fight adrenaline surged through my body, probably wreaking havoc on my sensitive pores. This year I've got a chip on my shoulder and something to prove to the world and myself. I'm single, I'm not living with my parents anymore, and we're gonna have enough booze to date rape a wooly mammoth. I've got visions of sugar rum fairies rolling in my bed.

First things first, I need a haircut and maybe a new shirt and some shoes. I go to the mall, and the line for Mastercuts is forever long, so I put my name on the list and head off to do some shopping. This may have been a great time to splurge for Spa on the Avenue instead of Mastercuts, but despite my current financial security, responsibly managing money is of the utmost importance. I'm gonna be paying more bills than ever before, and the last thing my ego needs is for me to crawl back to mommy and daddy because I blew my budget on shoes that didn't get me laid. Bags in hand, I make my way to Mastercuts.

That's when I hit a speed bump. A speed bump in the form of a 5'4'' greek goddess, and I've got my lasers, I've got my tasers, I've got my ICBM's and my bazookas pointed right. At. Her. That fairy in my head has a brand new face. I don't ask her name, but I'm guessing Aphrodite. 

In hindsight, Medusa would have been far more fitting. 

It's getting a little late so I think I'm gonna wrap this story up tomorrow after work. This is what we call a "tease" in the biz.

love,

Bobby