Everyone wants to look younger. Five years, six years, seven years—people will do whatever it takes to shave even a little bit of time off their appearance. And there are certainly plenty of age-defying serums, lotions and creams that will do the trick. Not to mention Botox, Juvaderm and expensive major surgery that can eliminate your wrinkles and make you look “refreshed.”
But what if you’re too noble to try any of that nonsense? And of course by “noble,” I mean “so cheap that you use grocery store circulars as coffee filters”? Yes, friends, what can skinflinty bastards like us do to freshen up our appearance while still being able to afford our calcium supplements? The answer is that we need to stop trying to look years younger and instead try to look decades younger. Oh, yes we can! Presenting:
My 5-Point Plan To Look Like I Did When I Was 12-Years-Old
Step 1: Get a perm! True, the Donna Summer stack perm I had in 1979 left me with lasting psychological damage due to being the only blonde disco queen in rural North Dakota, but honestly. Did anyone even notice my crow’s feet back then? No, they did not! Mostly because they were too busy pushing me into a locker and calling me “Triangle Head Butt Bag,” but that’s beside the point!
The important thing is that my hair took the focus off of every other one of my body parts. Mostly because it was bigger than every other one of my body parts, but again—beside the point! So I’m a comin’ for ya, Toni Home Perm!
(Note: There are no existing photographs of the 12+ months I had the Donna hair. My parents refer to those dark days as “that shitty perm time.”)
Step 2: Get a retainer! As any orthodontist will tell you, nothing gives you a more youthful glow than a slimy piece of plastic and metal stuck in your mouth. (And if you’re on budget, simply make one with a fork and an empty margarine container. This is called “DIY.”) But a retainer is a simple, easy and effective way to bring back those easy breezy crooked teeth days when I looked like a premenstrual badger with a perm.
“Are you over 21?” the bouncers will ask when my drooling metal mouth shows up at the club. “Yeth, thir, I thertainly am!” will be my answer. Then I’ll immediately go lose my retainer in the club’s trash can.
Step 3: Put Shaun Cassidy on my chest! Well, not literally because I imagine Shaun’s porked up over the past few years now that he’s no longer hoovering shovels full of 70’s cocaine with Kristy McNichol (unsubstantiated rumor that I read in the May, 1980 issue of Tiger Beat; don’t sue me Shaun). No, what I mean I’m going to start wearing this dynamite t-shirt every day like I did for the entire 7th grade:
Feathered hair perfection wrapped in a satin jacket. Yum!
(Question: does anyone know if they sell these at Chico’s? I have an AARP coupon.)
Step 4: Rock out with my Sony Walkman! Seriously, how youthful will I look with crappy foam headphones covering my ears while I lug around a 10-pound cassette player in my hand? Or, if I want to be even mondo cooler, strapped to my 3″ elasticized rainbow belt with the gold butterfly clasp that I bought from a scab-covered man at the carnival?
“WHAT’S THAT, OFFICER? I CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER IRENE CARA! OUT HERE ON MY OOOOOOOOWWNN! HEY, WHY YOU CUFFIN’ ME, DUDE?”
Anyone have a spare Electric Light Orchestra cassette for me?
Step 5: Rock my first pair of glasses! Luckily for me, my parents were too kind to donate my old glasses to a third world country (“Those people have suffered quite enough, Wendi”) which means that I can once again wear them with pride. Huzzah! Tell me, who needs a face lift when you can put on gigantic plastic child molester frames and instantly look like a sweet ingenue all over again? Sexy, sexy, sexy times.
“Excuse me, cute girl, are you on your way to study hall?”
“Nope, I’m on my way to a bone density test, hipster!” Viva La Youth!
Does LensCrafters make bifocal lenses this big?
So there you have it, folks. By doing just a few simple things like this, not only will you look younger, you’ll look just like you did when you were a shy, unblemished 12-year-old loser writing fan letters to Robin Gibb in your basement each Saturday night. So suck it, Father Time!
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to call the fire department because I seem to be stuck in this 1980’s training bra I wrestled myself into. I think it’s starting to cut off my circulation.