Good looks, like any other currency, tend to multiply among those who already have it. By “good looks,” I mean the current standard created by capitalism, against which we are all asked nicely to measure ourselves.
There is, of course, the alternative (and more self-reassuring) opinion of our mothers, but there are times when we decide that–sod it–we don’t mind being complimented every now and then by people other than an immediate relative.
Say, you happen to have won in the Genetic Lottery and were blessed with chiseled facial bone structure and countoured muscles. You buy and use products that are supposed to be fashionable and these serve no purpose other than underline your pure awesomeness. On the other hand, less fortunate souls who attempt to do the same might only succeed in making fun of themselves.
I know this because last week, I had my hair… dyed. It was supposed to be just a simple haircut, but the dresser was… a skilled salesman. I look great with my newly pruned hair and would I like to be a little adventurous with the colour? He suggested this shade that is simply called “ash” and which actually looked good on… the model on the magazine.
Like any other disaster, I never realised I was in any mortal danger until too late. “Ash,” as I found out later, is a very appropriate name. By the time Salesman finished messing up with my mop of a hair, I managed to stare long and hard at the mirror.
It took me more than a few seconds to realize that the dead-looking guy returning my stare is, in fact, the new me.