My life was once a carefree tapestry of joy, untouched by the trials of labor. Then, I crossed the threshold of Mme. Claudine, a beauty specialist, and my innocence was shattered. The yearning for beauty had always been a secret obsession, a longing fueled by the sting of being told, ‘Handsome is as handsome does.’ I envied every beautiful woman, cursing my own lack of grace. Yet, I remained passive, unsure of how to achieve this elusive ideal. Mme. Claudine, with her mauve and French gray salon, was a master of deception. Her sleek, painted exterior belied a brisk and businesslike spirit. She possessed a talent for persuasion, selling me more creams, lotions, and bizarre contraptions than I could have imagined. My hallway was transformed into a makeshift showroom of beauty products. Her regimen was a meticulous dance of nightly rituals. A strict diet, excluding any semblance of taste, was coupled with a series of grueling exercises and a folio of detailed instructions for each beauty aid. It seemed the mere presence of daylight threatened to ruin her meticulously crafted magic. That night, I locked myself in my chamber, feeling strangely apprehensive. I envisioned myself, adorned in Mme. Claudine’s contraptions, looking like a grotesque caricature. The ‘beauty culture’ that I had naively thought would take twenty minutes stretched into an eternity. My hair, once brushed fifty times a day, now demanded a brutal two hundred and thirty-seven strokes with a five-pound brush. The deep-breathing exercises, performed in front of an open window, felt like a theatrical display. Stretching my arms in exaggerated motions, I prayed the neighbors hadn’t witnessed this ridiculous spectacle. The exercises escalated in absurdity. Touching the floor with my fingertips, without bending my knees, felt like an act of self-flagellation. Lying on the floor, raising my legs in the air, I felt utterly foolish and self-conscious. Rolling the length of the room, I resembled a human bowling ball. By the end, I felt like a crushed tank. My face was subjected to a relentless barrage of lotions and potions, an endless cycle of application and removal. I lost track of the creams and became convinced I needed a professional accountant to track the chaos. Then came the appliances. Little plaster crescents adorned my face, attempting to ward off wrinkles. A harness, a tangle of straps and bandages, tightened around my head, making me resemble a medieval torture victim. My hands were no exception, massaged with their own special skin foods. I struggled into oversized medicated gloves that made me feel like a giant. But the true horrors lay in wait. Ten wicked little instruments of steel, designed to make my fingers taper, were the finale. Each instrument, equipped with a screw, was tightened until the pressure became unbearable. I endured this nightly torture, knowing that Mme. Claudine’s creativity had exhausted itself. Exhausted, aching, and utterly grotesque, I surveyed myself in the mirror. I would have preferred a fiery death to being seen in this state. The mere thought of a fireman encountering my monstrosity filled me with terror. My beauty course ended there. The unopened jars and bottles, the empty gloves, served as a constant reminder of my folly. I am forever changed, scarred by my quest for beauty. The world is full of women who endure these nightly rituals. How could such dauntless creatures be denied the vote?
A Night of Beauty: Dorothy Parker’s Hilarious Take on Self-Improvement
