“I’m SO painfully — horribly — madly — wildly HUNGOVER!” Ruba screeched in a tone so high-pitched the wallpaper in the bedroom began to curl in protest.
I slowly opened one heavy eyelid and screamed. “GAHHHH!” The beam of sunshine bleeding through the curtain felt like a knife twisting its blade into my cornea.
“The FUCKING SUN.” Ruba shouted in solidarity.
“Do you have water?” I croaked.
“No.” Ruba croaked back.
Suddenly I found myself fetishizing water as if water was a pornstar. Erotic visions of liters of electric-blue gatorade danced through my head. I began to fantasize about the way those electrolytes would feel as they penetrated my poor, parched body. Right as I was about to start objectifying an ice-cold glass of OJ — the door swung open.
“GIRLS! IT’S TIME TO GET UP! WE HAVE A DRAG SHOW TO ATTEND!” Eduardo stood in the doorway, a slim silhouette defined by shiny buffed fingernails pressed lightly against pointy hipbones, tiny black shorts skimming the tops of delicate gay-boy thighs, big pillowy lips pursed in disapproval.
Oh shit. That’s right. We’re in Fire Island and it’s day #2 of my bachelorette.
“Okay, Okay.” I squeaked. Eduardo raised a modestly filled-in brow and swung his heels. “You’ve got twenty minutes, bitches.”
Even though I was in the throes of an apocalyptic hangover, my heart fluttered at the thought of the day’s drag show. Have you ever been to Cherry Grove — the friendly gay little nook on New York’s Fire Island? It’s like gay Disney Land but in lieu of snapping pictures with Snow White, you get heckled by world-class Drag Queens poolside.
“Oh, you ‘write’ for a living? You mean SUCK COCK?!” A Queen once sneered to me after pulling me on stage. I adored every second of the public shaming. I mean, you haven’t lived until you’ve been demoralized in front of a sweaty crowd of Tri-State queers by a Queen who hasn’t slept since Memorial Day Weekend.
The best is when the Queens take their performance into the actual pool. Do you know what’s better than being called a slut by an over-partied, over-worked Queen? Watching her swim. Oh, honey! I mean, you *really* haven’t lived until you’ve witnessed a queen dive into a pool in full drag regalia: wigs, lashes, tits, hips, sparkles, nails, jewels, and heels.
Ruba and I are both *real* party girls — we didn’t just dabble in partying in college, we’re lifers. This means that no matter how ill last night has rendered us — we fucking rally in the name of Drag.
It’s a party girl sin not to.
After peeling our frail bodies out of bed, Ruba and I stood side by side in the tiny bathroom of our rental house and gazed into the unforgiving mirror. It wasn’t easy to face the music of my reflection. My face looked pale and round like a full moon. The bags under my eyes were not Chanel. They were bleak and grey and tattered, the kind you see haphazardly tossed into the sale bin somewhere depressing — like I don’t know — Nordstrom Rack. Last night’s red lipstick was everywhere but my lips. I looked like Courtney Love in the early 90s — only without the glamorous rock n’ roll career to soften the blow of my weathered face.
I looked over at Ruba. The whites of her eyes were the color of oxblood. Her curly, black-as-night hair shot out the top of her head — giving her a strange, shocked expression. Last night’s mascara was everywhere but her lashes. She looked like a swarthy Brittney Spears à la 2007 — only without the glamorous pop star career to soften the blow of her weathered face.
A great wash of clarity suddenly swept itself across my flesh. “I know just how to fix us.” I turned to face Ruba. Her swollen face met my swollen face.
“Let’s do it.” She shifted her gaze back to her reflection and stared intently into the mirror as if the mirror was carried the answers to all of life’s great mysteries.
In unison, we reached for our makeup bags and silently got to work.
Fifteen minutes later we looked so fresh we could have been mistaken for Sashimi at Nobu.
“You girls never let me down.” Eduardo purred.
If you can impress a homosexual man with your makeup prowess — you know you’ve done a stellar fucking job, babe.
And lucky for you, I’m going to share my seasoned Party Girl beauty hacks with *you.* If you apply these extraordinarily simple steps into your life, you too, will look healthy + hydrated on the outside — even when you’re a wilting plant on the inside.
Ice Roll. Ice Roll. Ice Roll.
If you follow me on Instagram — you understand my deep love of the ice-roller.
And if you’re a puffy person you must, must, must get an Esarora ice-roller, from Amazon. It should set you back no more than a whopping $12 and it lasts a lifetime.
It looks sort of like a futuristic rolling pin, except its ice cold (you keep it in the freezer). Before you do anything in the morning you need to dutifully ice-roll your face, starting at the jawline working your way up and out. Set the timer and do this for exactly ten minutes while listening to a podcast of your choosing.
Massaging the face with an ice-roller drains out all the excess fluid that’s stuck inside of your face, and pushes it out of your system. As you roll your face you’ll be stimulating the blood flow and no joke — contouring your face. The ice-coldness of the product also kills the inflammation.
I don’t approve of ice-rolling without any oil or liquid on your face, because you don’t want to massage dry skin — unless you want wrinkles. My favorite thing to do is buy ice cold aloe vera gel, keep it in the fridge, slather it on my face and go to town with my ice-roller. My favorite brand of aloe vera gel is Nature Republic Aloe Vera Soothing Gel. It’s $6.99 and one of the best selling products in Asia.
Invest in a spray tan.
It’s only in the party girl’s best interest to be spray tanned at all times. Spray tans have come such a long way in the past decade! I recommend just going to one of the booths that spray you down via technology rather than dealing with booking a person to do it (human interaction is so exhausting, don’t you think?). It takes less than ten minutes and lasts about a week if you dry brush before your appointment. Find a tanning salon that uses the Versa spray tan formula — and pay an extra five dollars for the primer unless you want to smell like Ritz Crackers.
The reason party girl’s need to be spray tanned is because a TAN masks the sallow, fatigued skin of a party girl. If you’re blessed to not be white — feel free to skip this step. Your skin probably looks perfect even when utterly hungover!
Lashes for days.
Want to open up your baggy eyes? Use strip lashes! Or get eyelash extensions. Or just glob on the mascara. When your lashes are long you can be hungover and hideous and still look gorgeous.
Serve Forehead with face jewels.
I don’t care that you’re not at the Electric Daisy Carnival. I don’t care if you’re rave days are behind you. Face jewels are beautiful and — they hide the dehydration lines in your forehead! Put them under the eyes to hide bags!
Also, they distract the masses from your puffy face. Plus, they’re cheap on Amazon!
Nothing brightens up a dull face like RED LIPSTICK. It’s glamorous. It’s rich-looking. It whitens the teeth. It’s fabulous and amplifies the energy of any room. Which, really, is the civic duty of the party girl, isn’t it?
Now darling, this only a few of my beauty hacks. But like any classy woman — I couldn’t exactly blow my load so quickly, you know?