Fairy Woman Vs Just Woman

I decided to go to a beauty salon. What exactly I was expecting from this trip, I could not even explain to myself, but my inner voice insistently suggested that the X-hour had come, and twenty-five years is a great age to transform from a teenager into an adult (and what is remarkable - well-groomed and a beautiful woman). For some reason, it seemed that it was there, in a mysterious place that I had previously avoided, preferring to use improvised means, in a space with a mysterious and romantic name "salon" they would do something with me, put on a mask that enlarges the eyes, and the fifth they reduce the point, or they pluck out my eyebrows so that life will sparkle with other colors, in short, they will turn me from an earthly girl into a fairy, at least. It is worth noting that the older I get, the more often they designate me,as a beautiful woman and without any salons and miraculous means, with something internal that, either glows, or shines with all the colors of the rainbow, or makes men in silent delight independently fold into stacks near my far from ideal legs, then all together.

A huge number of rather smart and disinterested people insist on my beauty with such enthusiasm that I even believe all this to some extent (but like any former ugly duckling, a fat, awkward schoolgirl and a big dick, I reasonably doubt it), but, always, all my life, probably, to a ripe old age, I will gaze with breath and trepidation at women who always, under any life and weather conditions, look their best, no, even two hundred. Such ideal beauties are a special class, species, breed, which is probably determined even at birth - she is born with shiny hair and impeccable makeup.

Their dress, these nymphs, never wrinkles a dress, even a linen one, a skirt does not stick to tights, moreover, apparently, they never sweat, in the theater their heels do not break, and their hair does not start to stick out during a working day. different sides (provided that it is raining, snowstorm or tsunami outside), cosmetics are not smeared, and a bunch of all sorts of "not" that allow the lucky ones to somehow, in general, correspond to the moment. Because I personally, as soon as I find myself in a decent place, from a young woman who left the house an hour ago, I turn into a sad girl with a thick nose, crookedly plucked eyebrows and a very bad styling coupled with a very bad haircut. Lord, I want to scream at this moment, I spent with combs, brushes, brushes, sponges, hairdryer, tongs,powder and other attributes of female beauty for two and a half hours, I did not sleep at night - I was preparing to get ready! Where is it all? Where are my gorgeous curls, who is this person with, dare I say this, straw on my head?

And while I desperately peer into the mirror in an attempt to find the remnants of the former luxury in the reflection, SHE will surely float by. She is a nymph, she is a woman-princess, an angel goddess who descended from heaven to our mortal earth. She always has everything in place, she does not need to carry a bag of cosmetics and combs with her in order to be able to somehow fix a disaster, because she does not have a disaster, and her hair flutters, like in an advertisement for the best shampoo with push-up effect, or do not flutter, but lie in such a way that all around earthly women want to immediately hang themselves. Desperate thoughts immediately begin to spin in my head: everything is gone, the fairy tale did not work out, no one got married, and if they did, then not a prince, but if a prince, then not the one, in short, life just passed by, sparkling with a snow-white smile, which Colgate didn't give herand nature.

She does not smoke, does not drink anything but red wine, she takes care of herself and therefore feeds exclusively on the admiring glances of an unhappy and gray society in comparison with her. She descends from the heights of her impeccable beauty in order to smile tenderly, they say, nothing, not everyone can grab the stars from the sky, and floats on, not even realizing that someone's dream has just collapsed for the hundredth time, if not about a beautiful life, so at least about the delightful reflection in the mirror.

I have a friend who buys only white down jackets and only to the floor. No, no, she does not live in Norway, where the streets are washed three times a day, and the snow is white and white like on a Christmas card, she lives in Moscow, and her down jacket, which looks like a wedding dress, is always clean. For ten years of our acquaintance, I have never seen a single stain on her coat. Moreover, I’ll reveal a secret that such women’s homes are also perfect, the linen is arranged according to colors, photographs of numerous well-fed, pink and pretty magazine-like children, Apollo's husband, or, in extreme cases, cats and dogs who “absolutely do not stain anything, we wash them with shampoo super-power of purity and beauty. " Plates fit cups, cups fit highchairs, chairs fit a typewriter in a clean garage, the walls are white, children don't touch them with their hands,and if touched, then without leaving spots, the British cat with shiny hair always sleeps and always in a ball, as in the picture. On weekends, she goes to fitness, where she has already lost fifteen kilograms and has never sweated, which is evident from impeccable photos on social networks, for breakfast oatmeal with fruit, steamed fish for dinner, on weekends - spa treatments and light pilling of the face. I always look at such people from the bottom up, and like any decent woman, I slightly hate, and of course, admire them until they lose consciousness.steamed, spa treatments and light facial exfoliation on weekends. I always look at such people from the bottom up, and like any decent woman, I slightly hate, and of course, admire them until they lose consciousness.steamed, spa treatments and light facial exfoliation on weekends. I always look at such people from the bottom up, and like any decent woman, I slightly hate, and of course, admire them until they lose consciousness.

I sadly go over the episodes in my memory: although my plates are the same color, they do not fit the kitchen, and, I must say, the kitchen is hardly combined with the rest of the apartment, the adored cat leaves clumps of wool everywhere, throws the filler out of the toilet, and by the colors I can't even lay out pencils, because I don't have enough patience. And yet, for some reason absolutely unclear to me, men are still clustered around me, and around people like me, who are without pilling and not in a white down jacket, and if in white, then “don't come near me, don't breathe, I can't sit down, I can't sneeze either, and I'd rather go and change. " Once, without finding a solution, I asked a man I knew: "Why me?" He thought for a few seconds. Then he smiled happily, said: "Because you are alive, and your beauty is also alive."After that, I somehow felt calmer. And so, I walk along the street, all alive, and I think: well, to hell with it, this salon, I'd rather read a book at home.

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