It’s a cliche that cliches are often based on truth, but the biggest cliches are easy to forget, like the ones about beauty. Beauty isn’t truth, but it elevates the soul just as much as garbage debases it. I keep forgetting to look for beauty in my search for relief. By relief, I mean relief from my own thoughts, which are my own worst enemy (not counting my trolls of course.)

Last night I went to see Van Morrison, and was reminded of the healing power of communal joy. Normally, I don’t want to make the effort to do things that involve any commitment of time and energy. A Van Morrison concert requires buying tickets, a strategy to get across town, a timetable to keep, packing snacks to eat, putting together an outfit that’s comfortable but reflective of my superior style, and so on. Thanks to my husband, I gathered myself to go.

Beauty is probably everywhere for all I know but I’m finding I need to search for it and cling to it. I wish this would become a habit, like checking the New York Times to see what new travesty is afoot. All my habits are bad but I know it’s possible to form new ones, better ones. Smoking weed is a relatively new habit that’s improved my life immensely. Same with Chai Latte.

Music used to a big part of my life before smartphones. Driving and listening to the mixes Max made me was always so pleasurable.  A house full of musicians was something I took for granted. The empty nest is quieter, and there is a joy that can’t be replaced but there is still joy to be had. I might need some mechanism to remind me: A rubber band, an alarm clock, a mnemonic acronym like MOEB (Music Or Else Bummer)?

I wish I could follow Van Morrison around the world and see every show. I wish I could rouse myself to get out and see more art. It’s a first-world problem but a life or death one for the severely depressed. (See Schopenhauer.) The crack is not where the light comes in, it’s where the vessel will break under pressure.

What form of beauty do you turn to for consolation? Tips, anyone? Here is a video that my friend Andra sent to me, an excursion into undersea beauty that left me weak with religious ecstasy.

And here’s some sparks of joy for you synesthetes.

Just look at these gorgeous nails. They are my dream nails, the perfect shape: Almost pointy but not so pointy that the tips keep breaking off.

They belong to George, a great guy who works at Nordstrom, and he was pleased by how much I loved them. They’re his real nails, obviously, and he gets them done at a place on Melrose called Pamper or Pamper Something.

We discussed my own nails, which are kind of oval. As everyone knows, I do my own nails, because I find it relaxing. I admit that it’s hard to make them all the same shape. I like to blame the nail-files but I guess it’s due to handedness and a less than optimal angle.

Here, look, from last winter:

Anyway, I’ve been irrationally proud to say that I’ve NEVER HAD A MANICURE, ever. I will be 65 in a couple of weeks, so that’s more than fifty years of doing my nails. It’s a long streak, and one I didn’t plan to end. I could have it on my gravestone or in my obituary. “She did her own nails.”

BUT! Why not just go get someone to make my nails look more like George’s???

This is my dilemma. If I give in and do it, can I see it as a refutation of stupid, reflexive stubbornness and personal “policies” that have outlived their usefulness? Can I turn it into a triumph somehow? I want to have my cake and eat it too, an expression I hate because it doesn’t even make sense to me.

Or, I can stick to my guns, because I don’t like the idea of paying an immigrant a pittance to service me while working in a toxic atmosphere. It seems so colonialist and fucked up.

Okay, so let’s not vote on how dumb I am, it’s a given. I want you to vote yes or no on getting a manicure.

Hurry up though, I could get a stroke or break my neck trying to tie my shoes (which you can just see in the left-hand corner of George’s beautiful nails.)

Today I went to my favorite beauty supply shop, on a street in a wealthy community where everyone is too thin and the people sitting outside Peete’s Coffee are  talking  to their agents on their iPhones. It’s a great shop that carries every obscure brand you’ve ever heard of and the sales people leave you alone unless you want their help.

I picked out two hair products that won’t have any effect on the quality of my hair, but I enjoy the process of wasting money this way. At the counter, a woman was asking for help with her eyebrows. She was explaining that her eyebrow has a cowlick and nothing she’s tried could solve the problem.

I was fascinated. The sales person was eager to help, and obviously relished the opportunity. She suggested eyebrow gel, but the woman said that gels haven’t worked. I managed to  suppress  my urge to butt in.  Personally, I swear by Lancome eyebrow gel in Brunet. It grooms the brows nicely and makes them look nice and full.

The sales person suggested  mustache  wax to tame the problem hair. I thought this was a great idea, even though I know you can actually get eyebrow wax at Bloomingdales or somewhere. It’s probably the same stuff, right? But the woman balked at mustache wax. She changed the subject to the dark circles under her eyes but continued to  complain  about her eyebrows. They were the bane of her existence, she said bitterly.

Finally, I couldn’t stand it. “Just pull that fucker out!” I snapped helpfully. Everyone turned to look at me. The sales woman smiled and said, “You’re so funny!” the way people do when they’re shocked by your candor. The eyebrow lady whined, “No, then I’ll have a bald spot!”

Now that I was involved, I offered a barrage of solutions but the eyebrow lady shot down each one. I began to realize how agitated she was. Maybe she didn’t really want help. Now she was complaining about the concealer she’d been offered and she refused to try the moustache wax.   The sales woman turned to assist another customer and the eyebrow lady announced that she would try a department store, where “someone has the time” to give her their “complete attention.”

I realized  that  she was nuts. Not in any dramatic way, but still nuts. One of the things I love about the beauty supply store is listening to women explain what they’re looking for, in a beseeching tone that reveals their absolute belief that something will make them beautiful and happy. I find it so poignant. The belief and the hope in that beauty supply store could fill several churches.

The eyebrow lady was an anomaly that almost ruined my pleasure in wasting $42. Almost. But when she left the store, everything was restored to normal.   I was disappointed that the nail polish I wanted was discontinued: it’s called “Bring on the Bling” and I tried it on last week when my BFF was having a manicure. It was like an entire Mardis Gras in a bottle.

Thank god I can still enjoy beauty products and I’m not a crazy eyebrow lady. That is my affirmation for today.

Max loved Laetitia Casta and considered her his ideal of female beauty (after Brigitte Bardo.) Seeing these pictures yesterday, I had to agree.

I’m posting these photos for you, Max.   You always had such great taste! You know how much I valued your opinions on music, writing, movies, art, philosophy, people, politics, everything.   Remember when you were a boy and fell in love with Marilyn Monroe? When you explained that it was her vulnerability that attracted you most, I was so proud of you. I still am. You are one of a kind. You are my angel.

I just want to keep sharing things with you! So here’s Laetitia. xoxo

When you’re unemployed and have no money, you go out to have lunch in department stores. If you use your charge card, it’s free.   Here I am at Nordstrom on Friday, trying on a pseudo-Chanel jacket by Trina Turk.

Seen up close, it’s really a lovely tweed fabric, with little specks of a million colors, including metallic gold threads. The only thing that stopped me from buying it (remember, it would be FREE if I charged it!) was the inescapable fact that I’d never wear it. I couldn’t even pretend that I’d wear it. Maybe if I bought the free matching skirt, I would wear it, but I never wear skirts.

The jacket is $356.00, but this picture doesn’t do it justice.

There’s nothing like the feeling of virtuousness you get from leaving a department store without buying a single thing. I felt like Mother Theresa. I had a heartwarming exchange with Faith, the Hot Nordstrom Girl. I also bonded briefly with a kooky lady who was interested in my handbag. Here, take a look.

I admired her pig, and told her that I had nearly bought that pig myself. She screamed “Samesies!” in delight. I asked my friend R to document these events because at this point, if you can’t document it, it’s not worth doing.

Since I’m always (i.e., never) asked, “Sister Wolf, you are so radiantly beautiful at your advanced age, what are your beauty secrets?” I will share the basics with you:

1. First, you adopt a cyber-daughter (annemarie) who will send you her red Paul Smith cords.
2. Make sure you NEVER leave home without your red lipstick. Ruby Woo by M.A.C. in this instance.
3. Don’t brush your hair and don’t cut it.
4. Eat plenty of sugar! Ice cream is the most important food group, followed by cookies.
5. Stress is KEY. Try to make sure you’re under constant stress.
6. Avoid exercise as much as possible
7. Finally, sleep deprivation: Stay up until 3 in the morning, just fucking around for no reason.

There you have it! Whatever anyone else tells you to do, DON’T. It’s too much trouble.

While we’re thinking about beauty, check out this project by photographer Zed Nelson, called “Love Me,” to shake up your ideas about the pursuit of attractiveness and its consequences.

Look at Blanket.   It almost hurts to see such a beautiful child.   I can’t stop looking at him.

Ambika asked me to list Ten Honest Things, so my outburst above is number 1.

2. I love babies.
3. I want a baby.
4. When I offer to babysit,   people are scared off by my neediness.
5. I love to watch little kids when I’m in line at the post office.
6. I love it when they fall down.
7. I love toy babies and baby parts, like these soap baby hands.

8.   Both of my babies were more beautiful than any baby ever.
9. I was pretty cute too, but by five I looked like Anne Frank.
10.   I am still in awe of this photo, after 16 years.

If only I had an income, I would have to buy this embroidered silk biker jacket.   It is not just unconventional, but it immediately reminded me of   Gram Parsons and his white Nudie suit on the first Burrito Brothers album.

Same same but different, as they say in Thailand.

The jacket is at farfetch, by Laura Lees, for only $304!   Whoever Laura Lees is, I salute her. Here’s a close-up of some embroidery on another one of her designs.

Oooooh! Do you love it or do you love it?!

Well, fuck. I have no money but if you’re a wealthy stalker, I’m a size small. Let’s take our minds off shopping by listening to the poignant raw beauty of Gram’s voice. Gone but never, ever forgotten.

When I saw this picture today, I was transfixed.   When I saw Connie Culp on the news tonight, I was stunned.   As “the nation’s first face transplant recipient,” here’s what she said:

Don’t judge people who don’t look the same as you do. Because you never know. One day it might be all taken away.

After smirking at photos of celebrity plastic surgery, I have to take stock of myself.

Imagine going through life without your face to depend on. Your face is everything! It’s the thing that stares back at you in the mirror, the thing you present to other people to communicate with them, to charm them, to placate them, to seduce them, to project who you are or who you’re pretending to be.

Without your face, you have to give up all that. You have to rely on your actual Self. You have to have inner resources that I can’t even imagine.   You have to have courage.   Connie Culp was shot in the face and lived through it. She has lived through the experience of being called a monster by kids who were frightened by her face.

And now she has appeared at a press conference, in order to help persuade potential donors that face transplants matter.

If only we could always remember how lucky we are, instead of thinking about our skin problems!

Schopenhauer’s advice for dealing with the problem of existence is to rely upon art, compassion and resignation.   I think that gratitude is a good idea, too, even if it sounds like preachy 12 step crap.