I found myself in Shopper’s Drug. On a Friday night. Waiting for a prescription. If I thought going to bed with lotioned mitts was a social-low, I’m pretty sure hanging out in Shopper’s on a Friday night was worse. The sad thing is that I actually enjoyed having an excuse to lurk in the cosmetics aisle. Not that I could browse too terribly much, seeing as I had a three year old and a one year old swiping things off various shelves.
Let’s just say I had to buy yet another tube of lip balm (which the boys like to call lipstick) because Percy had taken to sucking on its container.
But before I had the lovely task of holding up the damp, chewed piece of cardboard for the pharmacist to scan, I stopped at the nailpolish display. I’ve regarded the black nailpolish trend (which is probably nearly over, if I’m just now thinking about participating in it) with a mixture of disgust and intrigue. It’s harsh. And not particularly flattering. And yet, it’s everywhere. Sort of like that skinny-jean craze from a while ago. Or is that still going on?
So I settled on a bottle of Sally Hansen polish that appeared to be a greenish-black with gold flecks. Not exactly ‘Halloween’ in a bottle. And not so glittery that Miley Cyrus might want to borrow it. It was called Sequin Scandal, which is a pretty good name.
The next day I was in the Superstore with the boys. We were in the process of trying to make time pass more quickly, and were on a whirlwind tour of all the good that Westhills Shopping Centre has to offer: Indigo Books, Michael’s, and Superstore. At the check-out, I made what I consider to be a very mature decision. I put back the little box of chocolate covered sponge toffee I’d placed in the cart. For myself. And traded it for the latest copy of O Magazine.
The price was about the same. Yet the magazine contained zero calories. And also, it promised to unveil my TRUE CALLING with ‘an easy-does-it guide to finding (and fulfilling) [my] life’s purpose’. Definitely worth $5.75, in my opinion.
After a brief stop at the playground – to kill more time – we arrived home. And, with young Percy napping in his crib, I realized I had a tiny chunk of time in which to transform myself. So I grabbed my Sequin Scandal and sat down at the table. The hint of green I’d seen (imagined?) in the bottle was nowhere to be found on my actual nails. The look was definitely more KISS than chic, but I’d spent $7 on it and I’d already painted a couple of nails.
The Hen took an interest. ‘You paint my nails?’ he asked and placed his palms on the tabletop. ‘That’s just for girls,’ his older brother scoffed. But the Hen insisted, despite his brother’s ridicule. ‘When you were his age, you also asked me to paint your nails’ I reminded the Gort. Who’d apparently forgotten his brief encounter with nailpolish.
So I indulged the little guy and smeared some black on his tiny fingernails. Later that evening we visited some friends who also have young boys. ‘So, uh, when’s Jason getting back?’ our host asked when he saw the Hen’s fingernails. Of course the Hen didn’t help matters when he later remarked that his lips were dry and he ‘needed some lipstick.’
Must teach my boy-children to call it lip balm.
The next morning the Hen decided he was done with Sequin Scandal. ‘It’s embarassing,’ his wise-to-the-world brother shuddered. When we picked up the professor at the airport a few hours later, he was nearly un-recognizable in a black turtleneck, paired with the glasses he only wears when he’s using the computer. He looked like Steve Jobs. But with more hair. And a few billion less in the bank.
Maybe Oprah can help with that.