If a woman, who looks perfectly put together, says it only takes her ten minutes to get ready, you shouldn’t envy her.  She’s a fucking liar.   A woman who only takes ten minutes to get ready doesn’t have to tell you.  She looks like it. Stunning does not arrive in an express package.  It comes by snail mail.

Last week, Blacktress overheard two girls in their early-twenties gabbing about this very subject while getting a mani/pedi at her favorite place in Santa Monica.  As the vibrating, leather massage chair pressed against her knots, the banter of the tangerine- tinted motor mouths grained against her nerves.

-“I’m totally like a guy’s girl because I take like no time to get ready.  It only takes me like two seconds, and I’m out the door.”, bragged the one in liquid leggings.

The one in studded leggings concurred.

-“I know right. Make-up is for fugly girls.”

Blacktress glanced over at the two girls for just a second, but that’s all the time she needed to scan them from head to toe, and determine that they were completely full of shit.  Blacktress almost held her tongue.  Almost.   But instead she peeked out from the pages of her weekly tabloid fodder, and Marched right into their January/February conversation…

-“Did you ever consider that the reason you’re out the door in two seconds in the morning is because you’ve spent the entire year getting ready?”

The girls looked confused as hell.  Blacktress made herself plain.

-“Don’t you get regular facials, spray tans, hair extensions, eyelash extensions, eyebrow waxes, and Brazilian waxes…”

-“Ye-ah”, they said it in sing-song-y, unison.

Blacktress’ eyes fixed on the oranger of the two.

-“And you look like you might have had a rhynoplasty… haven’t you?”

Taking Liquid Leggings stunned silence as an admission, Blacktress continued.

-“Well then.” she said, and then cleared her throat, pausing intermittently for dramatic effect. “ No woman. Takes two seconds. To get ready.”

Leaving the girls to nearly hurt themselves pondering this new idea, Blacktress disappeared as quickly as she had come, back inside the pages of her magazine.  There, she was confronted with bullshit of a similar sort:  The Year’s List of Hollywood’s Overnight Sensations.

Blacktress knew that the notion of an overnight sensation was even more ridiculous than the notion of an easy bake glamazon.  She’d had one bad date with an agent’s assistant who broke it down for her over crab cakes.

-“Scratch an overnight sensation, and sniff a second generation of the Hollywood elite, or a hoe bag, who’s slept with half of CAA.    They smell about the same. Otherwise the over-nighters are actors who’ve been day playing and doing 99 cent theater, around LA, for half a decade or more.   Mostly, we are just Christopher Columbus… discovering things that have been thriving in one way or another foreeeever.”

Unfortunately for Blacktress, she wasn’t a hoe bag or a Hepburn, so she knew she may be looking at a long days’ journey into overnight sensation. But, until the “discovery”, the joy was in the journey.  There would be many adventures to be had and many cheap nail places in Santa Monica to remain perfectly manicured along the way.  And Blacktress vowed if and when she ever got to Leno’s couch, she’d tell the fucking truth about how she got there.

The Adventures of Blacktress.  Now Showing…

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