The Dangers of Kids Sparkle Glitter
June 04, 2010, By Ron Mattocks 0 comments
Whoever thought it would be a real hoot to make cosmetics for little girls, I hope they’re having a good laugh. It’s one thing for kids to play dress up with toy makeup, but to sell eyeliner and lipstick that they can actually smear all over their face—really? Was it so necessary for them to push the envelope just that much more by mixing glitter in with these products? This added touch, this cherry on top, this pièce de résistance that someone up in R and D deemed so crucial, I consider equivalent to the Viet Cong coating razor sharp punji sticks with excrement so as to inflict more damage on those unfortunate enough to impale a foot on such a diabolical booby trap.
As you can guess, my stepdaughters Allie and Avery already possess so much of this junk that whoever purchased it must have received a bulk discount as part of the deal. Why a first and second grader feel the need to spruce up their appearances baffles me, but something, perhaps biological, has told them to do so since before I even knew them. One time during a drive to school shortly after marrying their mom, I glanced up in rearview mirror only to notice Allie and Avery had used black and red Sharpie markers as eyeliner and lipstick. Like any good stay-at-home stepdad, my thought was to let them go to class just as they were. So what if they both looked like poster children, by which I mean children drawn with markers on a poster board. I figured perhaps everyone laughing at them might be a better deterrent than anything I could come up with. However, the effectiveness of such a tactic would’ve proved a moot point once they were given the “real” McCoy.
To be fair, I’ve softened in my stance and have adopted a tolerance to the glittery cosmetics as long as they play with it in their rooms when it’s the appropriate time. However, problems occur when Allie and Avery get a little hazy as to the definition of “appropriate.” Take for example a few weeks back. It was typical day of getting ready for school. Allie and Avery had already finished their list of regular tasks—brush teeth, load backpacks, clean sink—in which case I told them to go play in their room until it was time to meet the bus. Fifteen or twenty minutes later we headed out the door, right on time as usual. Then a slight glare hit my eyes, and I noticed something peculiar about their faces.
“What were you two doing in your room?” I asked.
They looked at each other and then at me as if this were among the most random and obvious of questions.
“We gave each other makeovers,” Allie said finally.
I closed my eyes and sighed. Their faces glistened like dew on grass in the morning sun.
“But we’re all sparkly glow-ee!” Avery responded, sure that her logic was enough to sway my disapproving reaction.
It did not.
I then explained to them that glitter makeup was meant for play, not for going out into public unless it was Halloween. Like the Sharpie marker incident, I let them brighten the school in all their sparkly glow-ee splendor. What I didn’t mention to them was my plan once they were gone.
Walking back from the bus stop, I resolved to find the items used in this latest round of makeover mischief and hide them out of their memory. My search, however, proved futile leading me to the logical conclusion that the girls hadn’t just done up their faces, but they had taken the makeup to school as well. This wasn’t much of surprise to me given that my unannounced backpack inspections have turned up a number of smuggled contraband items such as a baggie of Pixie Stix powder with a street value of 5 dollars and a 10 pound chunk of asphalt (have not a clue).
Sure enough, when the girls got home, I found the source—bottle upon bottle of glitter sprays, lotions and powders crouching in the bottom of Avery’s backpack.
“Do you know what your girls did today?” I rhetorically asked their mother later that evening. “They thought it would be a good idea to give each other makeovers before school.” I held up a bottle of pink sparkle spray, pinching it by the neck as if it were a squirming rodent.
A sheepish grin slid across Ashley’s face. “Yeah, sorry,” she said. “I uh… I got that for them.”
In what’s become my signature expression, I closed my eyes and sighed again wondering whose side my wife was on these days. Then looking at Ashley again, I noticed that she too was all “sparkly glow-ee.” It looked like fairies had crop-dusted the entire region right above her bosoms.
Glancing down, Ashley chuckled. “Must’ve been from when the girls hugged me when I got home from work.”
I closed my eyes and sighed.
The reminder that glitter could be passed from one thing to another thrilled me just that much more. I envisioned Allie and Avery running around with their grubby hands as they touched everything and everyone like little versions of King Midas transforming the entire apartment into a sparkly, magical state. Understand I am very particular about home décor. It’s bad enough that the sparkly look is so 1970s, but factor in that once glitter gets on something, it will never completely go away, making it the arts and crafts version of herpes. The thought of this caused my mind to race in search of a solution for preventing a wide-scale outbreak. Too late.
Walking into the living room, I could see the sofa had already been infected. And by the extent of the affected surface area it appeared as Allie and Avery had rolled around on the entire thing the same way cats do when using the floor to scratch their backs. Despite my best efforts, all the Valtrex in the world couldn’t clear up the glitter festering on the seat cushions. Resigned to the shimmering permanence of the disease, I closed my eyes and sighed. Things will never be the same again, and it wasn’t just the couch that would be changed.
A few days ago after stepping out of the shower and combing my hair, I caught the glint of something in the mirror. “No, it can’t be,” I thought, leaning forward. Using my fingers, I separated the follicles of hair above my forehead. There, right below my crown, a field of glitter, winked back at me, suddenly brought to life by the bathroom lights overhead.
How in the name of Orion’s leotard did this … Then the answer dawned on me—I had fallen asleep on the couch last night.
I closed my eyes and sighed, adding a disheartened head shake to further underscore my sadness over this life-changing discovery. I mouthed a curse word at the face staring back at me. I was one of them now. No longer would I be known as Ron—husband, father, all-around good guy. Instead, I was sure my wife and stepdaughters would rename me “Mr. Sparkle.”
Ron Mattocks is a father of five in Houston, Texas and the author of the book Sugar Milk: What One Dad Drinks When He Can’t Afford Vodka. He is a featured contributor to ManoftheHouse.com.
