By Debbie Shea

Deb Shea discusses her mom, the other vanity, and male toes.

One of the definitions of "vanity" is a small table with a mirror, for use while putting on cosmetics, etc. Note the "etc.": Apparently the list is too extensive to get into the other vain-staking lengths we go to in order to look our best.

We learn vanity at such an early age. Little girls get hand mirrors in gift sets that include a hairbrush and comb. All right, maybe that was just me. So what if I asked for it while sitting on Santa's lap?

In my early teens, my friend Pam got her first vanity, so I, of course, had to have one too. It seemed so important and exciting, as if we were entering into womanhood. But I don't have a vanity now. I have this makeshift setup, which includes a hideous mirror a former roommate left behind. It has frosted cat's tails and seagulls around the border and sits on an easel I used to use for drawing. This is where I create my self-portrait every day.

I watched my mother spend a good percentage of her life sitting at her vanity, "putting her face on," as she would put it. If we spend 60 percent of our lives working, as they say, I swear my mother spends the other 40 percent just getting ready. Sometimes I didn't even recognize her in the morning when she'd wake up without any makeup; she looked like an entirely different person. It was fascinating to watch: She had a mirror that had two sides, one of which was a magnifying side, which never failed to scare the living daylights out of me. (Imagine what it would do to me now.) There were lights on either side, like in a movie star's dressing room, so you could apply makeup according to whether it was morning, noon, dusk, evening, or late at night. It used to take her a full two hours: She would curl her eyelashes after putting on three coats of mascara. I told her once that her eyelashes looked like fly's legs, but that didn't deter her. Fortunately, the blue eye shadow was a bit of a distraction from the eyelashes.

I used to plead with her to tone it down. She was a beautiful woman; she didn't need to hide behind all that makeup. I think she and many women think that if they look good on the outside, they can conceal all scars from the inside. Even some of the names of makeup are revealing: cover up, concealer. Let's face it, there are some flaws that, no matter how hard we try, we can't hide. I'm not saying that I'm not guilty of this myself. I rue the day I started wearing makeup, which, looking back, was far too early in my life, way back in the days when we used to refer to girls who had a base line as "base face."

We live in a world in which women and young girls look to magazines like Glamour and Cosmopolitan for advice, diets, and inspiration. Ironically, these magazines only succeed in making some women feel worse about themselves.

Vanity does have its positive side, though. Being vain is good for the economy. Your teeth aren't white enough? Why not bleach them or get whitening strips or Rembrandt? Don't want to age? Don't worry, we're working on reversing the aging process so you don't have to face reality. In the meantime, there's Retin-A, Alpha-Hydroxy, collagen injections, and chemical peels. (I actually use one of those, but it's strictly for acne, wink, wink. Oh, I shouldn't wink, because it causes wrinkles and crow's feet. So does laughing and smiling and all those other things that make you feel good on the inside.) You don't like your nose? No problem, you can have that taken care of; just tell everyone you had a deviated septum. Plastic surgery creates jobs. Interestingly, plastic surgery makes people look just that - plastic (although I guess the more p.c. term is "cosmetic surgery").

I don't mean to sound preachy. If I had the money, I might be tempted to have a chemical peel or some electrolysis. There's nothing wrong with wanting to look your best. It's just the lengths we go to or that are shoved in our faces constantly - that's what I find questionable. To me, cosmetic surgery is scary on a few different levels. (Michael Jackson is a perfect example. But that's an entirely different article.) As far as face-lifts are concerned, I'd rather look older, maybe a bit wiser, than look like I'm perpetually surprised or like I'm growing out of my skin and it's causing me and the people who have to look at me discomfort.

I haven't even touched on the subject of men being vain. We know you're out there. In the gym, for example. Look at how some men pump themselves up at the gym; they don't have to take a good look at themselves, because they're busy trying to get others to look at them. In the movies: Christian Bale portrays an extremely vain man and murderer in the film American Psycho. (I have to admit he looks good killing people while wearing Armani.) And isn't the song "You're So Vain" about Warren Beatty?

But until I moved to New York, I never witnessed a man getting a pedicure. There's something off-putting about it, but I'm not sure why. I suppose a man has just as much of a right to get a pedicure as a woman does. Recently I was walking by one of the many nail salons in New York, and I had to backtrack to have another peek. There was a man having a pedicure done (by a woman, of course), head hanging back, looking like he was in complete ecstasy. If I didn't know better I would've thought he was getting more than a toe job. I've had a pedicure or two, and while it felt nice (when it didn't tickle), something about it felt medieval and wrong.

I think we're all a bit guilty of being vain to a certain degree. But if you're going to be vain, what better place to live than in New York, where there are so many buildings with windows in which to check your reflection? It's fun to watch people pretend to be looking in the window at something on the other side when really they're looking at themselves - I know because I've caught my own reflection doing that. The other night I was on the Long Island Railroad and this girl was chatting on her cell phone. If that wasn't bad enough, she was also looking at herself in a compact mirror while she was talking to her friend. I thought, How conceited is that? Then I thought, Don't judge - maybe she's talking to herself.

I have to go color my hair now, cover the gray. My roots look atrocious.