Chapped and Screwed

We've all experienced chapped lips before. Especially with this harsh weather, our poor lips can't get a break. That doesn't mean it's ok to run around in the streets with sheets of dead skin flapping in the breeze. We've got Burt's Bees, Kiehl's, coco butter, and good old-fashioned Vaseline to help out. Lip licking may be considered sexy to some of you, but it only exacerbates the problem.

The other day I was minding my own business in class when I noticed this young lady had the most egregious chapped lips I'd seen in creation. She knew it, too; because as she talked, she was picking away. At times she would stop peeling and just allow the skin to flap in the breeze like those international flags at the used car lot. Normally I wouldn't co-sign on public grooming—particularly when it comes to lips. It's on par with nose picking and bare belly scratching in public. But this girl had a foot-long sheet of dead skin on her bottom lip. I wanted it gone! Because I believe in God, the Secret, and the power of positive thinking, I prayed and Secreted her dead skin away. And it worked! When I looked away and turned back to her, her shiny new bottom lip was revealed. Kind of like when that nasty cocoon shell falls off and out pops the butterfly or when you take a rusty, old car to Maaco and have it painted in a marvelous new color.

As I reveled in the power of my mind, my body shook with great horror. Where had she disposed of that foot-long piece of dead skin? There was no garbage can near her desk and she had not gotten up to throw it out in a bin. She wasn't sitting by a window either. Did she put it in her pocket? Her notebook? Her boots?

Listen people. The world can be gross enough as it is with all of the nose pickers and bare belly scratchers walking the street. Is it too much to ask to excuse yourself and go to the WC to handle your business? Come on now.

It's Called Nailpolish Remover

Ladies, ladies, ladies. There's nothing worse than some chipped fingernail polish. It can cheapen you faster than fishnet stockings and clear platforms. The other day, on the L train no less, I saw a young woman chipping away at her nails. Not only were the flecks of paint flying in different directions—which could have easily landed in someone's eye and injured them—but she was ruining her nails underneath.

When the Chinese invented nail varnish around 3000 B.C., they had no idea that they were creating a potential weapon. But what's even more dangerous is that a bit of your own nail comes off when you deliberately hack away at your digits.

Short, shaped, and groomed nails are the loveliest accessories a woman can have. One of the least expensive, too. If you're decked out in a beautifully structured Lanvin dress and Pierre Hardy shoes, makeup to the nines, hair perfectly coiffed, and ragged nails, what's the point of getting out of bed at all?

Details ladies, details. If your nails are slightly chipped, the remedy is relatively small and takes little time. Dab a bit of polish remover on the index finger of the hand WITHOUT the chipped nails and gently smooth the offending area until the edges are smooth. Apply the necessary amount of coats to the nail and seal it with a clear polish protector. If you have several chips on different fingers and/or your manicure is over a week old, it's time to start from scratch.

The old adage of being able to tell a lot about a person by the shoes they wear applies to nails as well. Chipped nails may convey laziness or lack of attention to detail. While it may not signal the end of the world, you certainly won't be bringing your A-game. Early last year, the New York Times did an article on the chipped nail as a trend. You don't follow that trend. It's not for you.

Stop GAWSH Now!!

Admittedly, I'm one of the most ornery people on the planet. The littlest things drive me insane. McDonald's Duo and Pizza Fiend. And don't forget all of the PAOs. There's no time like the present to add yet another egregious act: Grown A** Women Stroking Hair (GAWSH). I've only begun to notice this in 2008 as an epidemic.

I remember back in junior high, a girl and I were on the outs with a mutual friend. So as females do, and continue to do well into adulthood, we started talking about the other girl behind her back. The girl, who I'll refer to as Amy, told me that our mutual friend, who I'll call Twirl-a-Girl, spent the night at her house over the weekend. They had a minor disagreement over nothing at all. However, it had upset Twirl-a-Girl so much that she sat up the entire night twirling her hair. Now this was back in 1990, when perms were rampant. The year before, in grade 6, Twirl-a-Girl had gotten a perm. A year later she had failed to get a retouch and the roots were growing in. But due to her nervous habit, Twirl-a-Girl had ingeniously maintained her curls!

In any case, I'm sure today her hair twirling and stroking continues on. But she's always done that, so I can't be mad at her. However, this new batch is out of control. Whether they're walking down the street, on the train reading a book, or speaking to another person, there they are with the most vacant expressions on their faces, stroking, stroking, stroking. Hair twirling can be flirtatious, and even achieve results (like Twirl-a-Girl's perm maintenance). But hair stroking?

What bothers me the most is how stupid, vapid, insipid (and other words ending in "id" that I can't think of right now) these women look. They're not gaining anything out of the stroking. Often, the hair ends up looking ratty and ravaged. Why not (like a proper lady), find a powder room and run a comb or brush through it quickly. The great Marsha Brady brushed her hair 100 times. That's dedication. Hair stroking on the subway can be viewed as public grooming, and for that, it's officially a Style Therapy no no.

Oh No He Didn't

The past two days have left me flabbergasted at the state of two men. A big Style Therapy no no is public grooming. This includes applying makeup (a quick lipgloss swipe is fine), nose-picking, hair twirling, toe-nail clipping (which is not uncommon on the train); etc. The other day I saw a man dressed in a suit with an attaché case board the C train during rush hour. The car was relatively packed, but we weren't at sardine capacity yet. I could not believe my eyes when I saw this man put his briefcase down, turn towards the doors of the train, look at his reflection, whip out a tie, and proceeded to do a double windsor!

He was jutting his chin out, between his collar, the way men do when they tie their cravats. Each time the train conductor hit the breaks or exited a station, he would almost fall on top of seated customers. He seemed pretty pleased with himself once his task was completed. But Tie Man was mild compared to what I saw at the Metropolitan L station yesterday.

The second man was young, with unkempt curly hair and he wore a beige corduroy blazer. I'm not sure if he was affecting a stereotypical professor look, or if he really was one. It didn't matter, because what I saw on his feet nearly knocked me out. As he was racing up the stairs to catch the train, I caught a glimpse of his feet. This man was wearing house slippers. House slippers on the street conjures up images of dope fiends. If corduroy blazers are a part of the professor cliche, fuzzy house slippers are addict's sartorial equivalent.

They were the type that people buy for their dads or grandfathers for Christmas. They are not meant to be worn on the street, even though they're fashioned after moccasins. The most one can do in them is run outside and get the paper while spending the weekend at a cabin in the Adirondacks. After all, we don't roam the streets in our drawers.