My Week as a High Maintenance Baddie

from the archive, July 2022

I’m parked at my in-laws for the next week and a half before we move *again* into our new *home!!!* Gah! It’s a massive privilege so I won’t get too hung up on the horror of moving twice without movers.

You can imagine it’s been a chaotic couple of weeks at BBM HQ. I’m constantly writing, but struggling to call anything “complete.” And I refuse to succumb to the rush of writing on a social media platform. So, instead of pressing myself to share something half-baked, here’s a piece I went broke writing in 2022. It was something I needed to do from an R&D perspective. It got a whopping 11 likes. I would change a lot about the writing today (hell yeah growth!) and I’d never wear that Red Scare hat again (twas a low point), but here it is, totally unaltered: My Week as a High Maintenance Baddie. It’s long. There are photos. Try and hang on til the end if ya can!

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“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful.”

― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

Etymologically speaking, use of the word “bad” to mean “good” dates back to the 1800s. The influence of African-American Vernacular English (AAVE) already concrete, citations in the Random House Historical Dictionary of American Slang for the word “bad” exist as both “stunningly attractive” and “formidably skilled.” 

The woman we meet today is both.

It was Sunday, June 5th when I was checking my schedule for the upcoming weeks. I noticed the week of June 13th I had both a Botox/lip filler appointment and a facial booked. Two frivolous bouts of aesthetic upkeep within days of each other? My calendar whispered, “lean into it, babe” and thus, an impetus for research crystallized. And so I started thinking about who I am in relation to this exaggerated persona who, in my mind, sees two visits to the med spa in one week as light work. I had to define her. And then I had to become her.

Who is the High Maintenance Baddie?

The High Maintenance Baddie is the luxury-feminine archetype. Her resources are almost chiefly squandered on looking hot and feeling amazing, indulging the modern conveniences that make life sparkle like a Cartier love bracelet at golden hour. She begins her days with Starbucks, Postmates sushi for lunch. Her apartment has a doorman and a gym and a pool where she lounges all summer in Frankies Bikinis. She carefully selects an outfit from a closet of neutrals: elevated basics in shades of nude, gray, black, and white, a faithful patron of Kim Kardashian’s Skims line... Agolde jeans and Air Force 1s… strappy sandals and leather pants… a variety of athleisure from brands like Alo Yoga… Fendi bags and lots of gold. Our girl has a NuFACE and is somehow, inexplicably, always in Tulum. Always spray tanned, leg oiled, draped in some cut out frock. Who is she with? Well, if we could answer that, we’d tarnish the allure. 

At the nail salon, the High Maintenance Baddie has a predictable rotation of OPI classics: “Bubble Bath,” “Be there in a prosecco,” “Tiramisu for two,” and a fierce splash of “Lincoln Park After Dark'' when the fall foliage starts to show. Her hair is usually very long and very straight—a $500 cascade of icy blonde balayage (trust that the Dyson Airwrap takes her from day to night!). She practices intermittent fasting and adds the Goop Gut Microbiome Super Powder to her tea; and in a safe space, one where she’s sure it’ll be well-received, she recites her Taco Bell order with an infectious, rehearsed confidence (“a cheesy gordita crunch, a crunchwrap supreme, and a large Baja Blast, but only if I’m like realllllly high!”). If you see her at a red light in her white Audi A4, don’t be afraid to rap along with her to whatever Megan Thee Stallion song she has blasting (or “All Too Well (Taylor’s Version)” if she and Jake are on the outs); these are the moments that give her Instagram story its sublime candor to offset the FaceTune and Tulum chronicles. 

The High Maintenance Baddie loves pilates and saunas and lymphatic drainage massages. A Louis Vuitton Neverfull stuffed with an emergency Fenty contour stick, AirPods, dry shampoo, pasties, clip-in extensions, pimple patches, a rollerball of something Tom Ford, birth control that she regularly misses, a long ass CVS receipt from when she needed to occupy herself while her birth control was being filled, Supergoop sunscreen, a claw clip, nail glue, Celine shades, and eight different nude lip liners. She stays ready for whatever life hands her, from reporting on “metrics” at her vague marketing job to an emergency root touch-up. The High Maintenance Baddie’s days invariably end one of two ways: in a Biologique Recherche face mask watching Housewives, or sipping an espresso martini that someone else paid for. 

The Prelude

Before I embarked on the week, I assessed the existing foundation. I wasn’t starting from ground zero; I get regular dip manicures, annual lip filler, and Botox every six months. I love eyeshadow. My shoe collection might impress someone of average taste and income. I order sushi occasionally. Thus, I don’t consider myself “low-maintenance” by any means. But I didn’t know what it felt like to spend a whole week treating myself without restraint, engaging in various forms of expensive leisure and physical enhancement that would usually make me wince. 

The plan was to pursue at least one notable act of beauty, wellness, or pleasure each day, while training my brain and body to work like a High Maintenance Baddie through routine activities. I booked the appointments. I pulled out my Air Force 1s from 2017. I lined up the products. I was ready to uncover a version of myself who knows exactly what she looks like at all times—who will pay people to do things for her that she would normally insist on doing herself. What I came to find was that nothing could prepare me for such a role.

Day 1: Some like it hot

8 AM: I wake up and put on my new Parachute Turkish cotton robe. I brush my hair with my Dry Bar brush and use my gua sha to reduce the puffiness around my jawline. I don’t know if gua shas work, but I know the High Maintenance Baddie is obsessed with slimming her face. I get dressed in black leggings, a black tshirt, high white socks and gray New Balance 990s, a trench coat, a black hat, and my YSL crossbody. It’s important to use products from boutique retailers and pull a look that’s “low-effort effort.” Oh, the Hailey Bieberness of it all already!

let’s go girls!

8:40 AM: I order an Uber to The Wellness Refinery where I’ve booked an infrared sauna appointment. I planned to drive, but quickly remembered the High Maintenance Baddie wouldn’t be caught dead looking for parking, or walking from her car in the rain. This makes me feel horrible and powerful at once.

8:55 AM: I arrive at The Wellness Refinery for my appointment. It’s the industry standard palette of millennial pink walls and green velvet benches. There are products along the wall, like matcha and candles, yoga paraphernalia. I can’t even tell you how much I hate it. It feels like being trapped in an Instagram ad for adaptogenic smoothie bombs. I am, however, pleasantly surprised by the workers’ absolute normalcy. They don’t speak phony LA spiritualist vernacular; they’re true Philly, gritty and to the point with an ease that makes you feel welcome without the saccharine facade. A real couple of jeans-and-tshirt girls.

On the table in the sauna room, there’s a sign that reads, “Sweat now, shine later. Enjoy Dia!” I relish the corniness. There’s a carafe of water (spoiler alert: you need it), an aux cord to play music, and a remote to control the Chromotherapy lighting (I enjoyed the warm shades of yellow and red). The sauna is set to creep upwards of 150 degrees, but it only reaches 133 while I’m there, for which I am grateful. I sweat harder than I have on 10-mile runs in 90 degrees. But with nothing in my stomach (they advise you to eat first, but that is not baddie behavior), fresh off a good night’s sleep, I feel I’ve maximized the experience of letting yourself melt into a puddle of nothing. This is rebirth. This is returning to center. When I towel off, it’s impossible to absorb all of the sweat; every time I think I’m dry, a new set of pores opens the floodgates. And so I head downstairs, still slick, and order the “blueberry cloud” smoothie ($12). It is objectively not good. The consistency is somehow both runny and chunky, like smoothie soup (er, gazpacho?) with surprise chunks of almond butter (which sounds kind of fire because soup rocks and almond butter is perfect but trust me, it sucked). It’s not worth $5, let alone $12. Andrew meets me for coffee at Menagerie.

I spend much of the day thereafter browsing Sephora and Revolve. I add many products to cart, only to find myself shaken by the thought of actually placing orders. I ask myself if I’m really cut out for this week if I can’t even online shop. Online shopping is vital to the High Maintenance Baddie lifestyle.

sweating my ass off

Day 2: Plumped and tightened

It’s Botox and lip filler day, so I’m feeling exactly as one could expect to feel when they know they’re about to get more attractive without lifting a finger. I don’t want to say I wait all year for this day; that makes it sound like I don’t have much to live for and I do assert otherwise. But it’s the one time of the year when I feel like a celebrity! I lay back in the comfy chair, watch needles penetrate my face, and drop hundreds of dollars like it doesn’t affect me when it absolutely does. Those are the days I can’t help but flip my hair, sway my hips when I walk. 

I get up at 6:30 AM for my 8 o’clock appointment. Before the crust is even rubbed from my eyes, I start instinctually applying makeup. Like my unconscious brain was silently preparing to take on this persona and my body had to catch up. Eyes, lips, face, even finishing spray. I own finishing spray (Too Faced brand, to be exact). Neutral athleisure is the chosen uniform yet again: Outdoor Voices leggings in a shade that is somehow both nude and lilac, a cream baby tee from Brandy Melville, and white Reeboks. Everyone knows High Maintenance Baddies shop at Brandy because despite being cheap, their one-size-fits-all model reinforces thinness. Instead of my usual oats or cereal with a banana, I grab an $8 pressed juice for breakfast and head out the door.

At my appointment, I’m panicking. This is my fourth time getting lip filler, and more and more I’m hearing that you should dissolve your filler between fills to avoid migration, which gives girls that duck face. I do not want the duck face. I also do not want to dissolve my filler and spend two weeks in a thin-lipped identity crisis. So I promise my injector I’ll dissolve next time, but request that she shoot that shit up today. As for Botox, I typically only do my “11s,” aka the lines between your eyebrows. This time, I ask her to go all in. I want to be taut. I want to be expressionless. Something about this time hurts more than it ever has. The first injection sends an unfamiliar zap through my system. Or is it all in my head? I’m concerned that something went awry, but I trust my doctor (whom I help with social media on the side). She gives me my products at-cost. The bill is just over $600. A steal!

After my appointment, I get an iced brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso from Starbucks. High Maintenance Baddies love Starbucks, and they love a little flavored ass drink when they’re feeling naughty. It’s enduring gospel of the early aughts. All the artisan roasters and independent cafes can go broke for all this girl cares; they don’t even sell venti sized which is, frankly, impoverished. Plus the mermaid logo is iconique. 

For lunch, I order sushi. While I wait for my sushi, I take a little TikTok of my outfit while still sipping what’s left of my Starbucks, informing my 100 followers of the mysterious synergy of it all. 

Day 3: Prima ballerina

I go into the office on Tuesdays. I want to go the extra mile in the spirit of research, so I do something I would never do: I wear foundation. Like, full coverage, blurs-all-signs-of-life cake, contoured with Benefit Hula bronzer. I would never wear foundation for an 8-hour day at the office when my skin is already subject to Center City pollution. But I pick up the Tarte amazonian clay foundation and put it to use. I also bought a hair straightener for this piece. I straighten my hair and dress in all black: a Norma Kamali dress, Sheertex polka dot tights, and Bottega kitten heels. For breakfast, I have one egg and a crouton-sized piece of avocado toast with balsamic glaze, pomegranate seeds, and fresh parsley. At the office, I treat myself to black La Colombe coffee and a salad for lunch. Andrew drives me to and from work, despite it being walking distance from our place. 

I download ClassPass for easy access to boutique workout classes. The High Maintenance Baddie has fitness goals of toning and elongating. She’s not going for a hard sweat, rather, a refreshed glow. The kind of sheen that costs a minimum $30 per class. Pilates and Barre come to mind. I settle on a class at Barre3 in Rittenhouse. Philly is no New York or LA so as far as neighborhoods and luxury fitness goes, this checks the box just fine. 

The studio is beautiful. I love just being at a dance studio because my alter ego is a ballerina, stronger and more graceful than I’ll ever be in a tight bun and a baby pink wrap skirt. When I check in, the front desk girl has me choose weights between 1 and 5 lbs. This sounds absurd to me: a class with weights as low as a single pound? This really must be for the daintiest of flowers. I choose 4 lbs so that I don’t look cocky getting 5s. 

The teacher, Madeline, is a 5’10 toned, tan blonde who could easily be in SI Swimsuit. She goes around asking all of us, individually and sincerely, how we are feeling today. Her smile is something of legend. It actually hypnotizes me into responding in some way other than “good.” I tell her it’s my first ever barre class and she becomes immediately placid with a kind of preternatural, magnetic wisdom. “Take what you need today,” she advises. “When I first started, I had to modify the moves. Don’t pay attention to what anyone else is doing. Do whatever YOU need to do.” In retrospect, her use of the word “need” could have clued me into how hard the class would be. But alas, I get throttled. There are points, while pulsing a wide squat, standing on my tippy toes, that I don’t think I can go on. And when the weights come into play, I quickly realize why some people grab 1-pounders. Under Madeline’s leadership, I take what I need, sweat dripping, quads shaking.

After barre, I take a hot bath with a Lush bath bomb. It’s called “Sex Bomb” and is described as “an aphrodisiac Jasmine soak.” Yum! While I’m in the tub, instead of reading or turning my brain off, I scroll Instagram and TikTok with a forced appetite for vanity. I’m lurking on celebrities. Makeup tutorials on YouTube. Plastic surgery before and after pages. I’ve considered getting a nose job before, so I follow one “Dr. Kassir” and slip into the vortex of his page. This man could really make me beautiful, I surmise. Now pruned and self-loathing, I realize vanity isn’t an adequate meal. I lazily GrubHub Honeygrow for dinner—a fast casual stir fry that I could have made myself. Not everything high maintenance is high brow. Sometimes luxury is merely vaporizing $25 on delivery, sinking into your couch in an expensive face mask. 

Barre3, Rittenhouse Square and a distant me in the mirror

Day 4: Hitting limits

You hate to see a bad bitch fall from grace, but this is when things start going downhill. When I miss out on critical research due to my own ignorance/poor planning. 

Let’s start with a little education. Did you know that Botox can move? Filler, I get. It’s augmenting, adding layers. It just sounds moveable by nature. But Botox? The stuff that freezes my muscles so I can’t form wrinkles? I assumed that shit was locked. Some practitioners only advise using caution for 24 hours, but some urge you to avoid applying pressure to the face until it’s fully settled, which takes about 10 days.

Because I’ve only had Botox like, four times in my life and gotten facials thrice, I’d never run into the conundrum of booking both in the same week. The 60-minute facial I had scheduled with Taralyn at Nirvana in Northern Liberties involves intensive pressure: facial massage, microdermabrasion. It’s kind of a workhorse. So I ask her what my options are that don’t involve canceling altogether. She decides to go feather-light around my forehead and swap microdermabrasion for a lactic acid peel and extra LED red light therapy. It costs $175 + $40 tip.

Afterward, I slip into Standard Tap for a dirty Hendrick’s martini. At the bar, I’m reviewing the product my esthetician showed me at the spa: RevitaLash, a line of serums and conditioners designed to grow your lashes and brows. I want to compare it to Latisse (another product I’ve been eyeing) to decide which one to order. I settle on Latisse.

So I still got my facial and lived my day out as a High Maintenance Baddie, but this wouldn’t be the first Botox-induced roadblock.

Nirvana Wellness Med Spa, Northern Liberties

Day 5: A table for one

One of the main inspirations for this piece was my curiosity toward eyelash extensions. They’ve always felt, to me, like a nod to yesterday’s muses—Sofia Loren, Jean Shrimpton—timeless beauties whose glamorous lashes paved the way for wide-eyed bombshells. Eyelash extensions are popular among competitive cheerleaders and if you know me, you know I’d risk it all to throw a basket toss at any given moment. I’ve spent years on the sidelines of this cultural phenomenon watching girls look either really foxy or really bad… like, gets-her-clit-pierced-at-Claire’s bad (on second thought, that’s kind of metal?). The High Maintenance Baddie always has a fresh set, so lashes felt like a vital piece of the puzzle. 

I made an appointment with the most lauded lash studio in the city. Prior to my appointment, they sent some ground rules, one being no recent Botox or filler. Again, my ignorance reveals itself. Of course these experts won’t risk their jobs on some idiot who doesn’t understand how Botox works. They cancel my appointment initially, but reach back out the next day saying my Botox should be settled enough to proceed. Unfortunately, I’m too rattled by the prospect of going blind or something insane, so I graciously decline.

A tenet of High Maintenance Baddie culture is to always treat oneself when things go wrong. I’m really bummed about my canceled lash appointment, so I make a reservation for one at Parc. Solitude is a luxury in itself, and though I don’t find Parc the height of Philly cuisine, it is delicious and romantic and tends to have an open table at the last minute. Not to mention, it’s home base for High Maintenance Baddies in oversized blazers and quilted Chanel bags—a see-and-be-seen dining experience in a city that literally doesn’t matter, though we make it matter all the same. 

As I get closer to my reservation, I realize I’m hanging by a thread. I’ve spent three days waiting for the Botox hangover to subside, but today, it hits crescendo. No ibuprofen or limited screen time can lift the heaviness. My forehead feels like it’s hanging over the rest of my face, despite all evidence to the contrary. I can’t tell you how badly I want to stay home, slumped on my couch in the dark with a sleep mask on. But the show must go on, mustn’t it?

I blast my hair with dry shampoo and do my makeup for what feels like the 100th time, either because I don’t typically do my makeup this often or because someone has poured concrete into my forehead and everything is exaggerated. I throw on a maxi dress in a summery, Emilio Pucci-inspired paisley print. An expensive solo dinner doesn’t feel like quite enough to ease the pain of missed eyelash extensions, though, so I Uber to Sephora first. This Sephora trip was really inevitable because I had some High Maintenance Baddie must-haves to pick up, namely the Charlotte Tilbury Hollywood Flawless Filter. Sephora describes the Flawless Filter as, “a complexion booster that blurs, smooths, and illuminates for a real-life filter effect. Customize your glow with four ways to apply.” I don’t know how anything can tout four modes of application, but I know that every bad bitch from here to Istanbul has this in their makeup bag. Right now, the Sephora website is even sold out of all but 4 of 16 shades.

a little commotion for the dress?

Naturally when I get to Sephora, they’re sold out of the Flawless Filter. The nice employee advises me to come back Monday when they get their new shipment. I quietly hope I never see Sephora or makeup or med spas or literally anything or anyone on earth ever again. So yeah no, I will not be back on Monday.

Walking to Parc, something bizarre happens. Something that hasn’t *truly* happened to me in a long time: I have a panic attack. I’m hesitant to call it that because I’m breathing fine, no chest pain, no tears. But I’m crumbling inward to the most intense degree I’ve felt in years. I actually order an Uber home before my reservation and when the Uber blows right past me as I stand fidgeting outside Barnes and Noble, I take it as a sign. 

I march to Parc with the determination of a Girl Scout working toward a badge. I will get this activity in for the good of the piece and I will enjoy it, even if I have to splash my face with cold water in the bathroom to avoid fainting. It’s in that moment I realize I haven’t eaten all day. Was this part of the act, or did this week shake the anorexia demon out of hibernation? Whatever. I secure my table by the window 30 minutes early, and order a pamplemousse cocktail, steak tartare, and French onion soup. The panic came in waves. I order a second pamplemousse and things start to neutralize. There’s something carnal about shoveling raw meat and quail egg on crunchy bread into your mouth while vodka permeates the bloodstream, your country club WASP fantasy materializing. I could do this every day.

I watch the couple next to me out of the corner of my eye. They’re really stunning. Both tall, lanky, and white, like two French models who could also be history professors. She forks the tomatoes from her warm shrimp salad onto his plate. What is she doing! The tomatoes are arguably the best part of the warm shrimp salad which sounds crazy but if you know, you know. I take a note in my phone that reads, “I can’t tell if I’m satisfied by my meal because there’s so much Botox pressing on my brain.” I order an espresso martini for dessert.

my meal at Parc, Rittenhouse Square

Days 6 & 7: God Knows I Tried

The whole week, I’d been documenting my adventures on my Instagram story. But by Day 6, I’m so spiritually deflated and financially choked that I simply cannot take another photo. I know I need to complete the assignment on my own, free of an audience, because I can’t act like I’m having fun anymore, despite doing things that I normally find fun. 

I apply St. Tropez self-tanner. I take hot girl walks and thank the universe for my greatest blessings: my hot pink Balenciaga slingbacks, my great skin, my perseverance through obstacles like Botox headaches and canceled lash appointments. I get a pedicure in Essie’s “Mademoiselle.” Sweetgreen for lunch. More Starbucks. My playlist loops Doja Cat and Megan Thee Stallion and Summer Walker until I’m no longer able to engage in basic tasks without first squeaking, “get into it, yuh!” I wouldn’t say I finish the week strong, but I finish as her, and that is enough.

The Comedown

It’s hard to package the lessons into something neat and useful. For the most part, I enjoyed each activity individually, but the sum of the parts gave me a hangover of the spirit. There were moments, when the Botox migraine was really bad, that I sat crying in the bathroom at the office begging God to forgive my vanity. I like to think that gave him a good laugh.

One truth this week underscored is my aversion to novelty. I like trends and innovation and general newness in theory more than in practice—things I can dip my toes into here and there to feel relevant or open-minded, but from which I can just as soon exit at first the sign of philosophical misalignment. For example, I survey the skincare section of Sephora and can only feign interest in all these emerging brands: The Inkey List, Skinfix… all these options that strip beauty of its magic, the keepsake factor passed down through generations. (Maybe I’m just overly sentimental.) I have renewed appreciation for the tried and true.

Another related (and unexpected) challenge in playing this part was Ubering everywhere. Having taken public transportation for five years and usually opting to walk any distance on nice days, Ubering a mile and a half was jarring. It made me grateful for the fact that I’m not lazy. And that I’m able-bodied. That’s easy to take for granted.

So, you know the outro to Frank Ocean’s “Biking” when he’s scream-singing words so incoherent, they elicit a stronger feeling than they would expressed clearly? That was me scribbling hundreds of notes throughout this experience, just blazing maniacally through feelings of shame, ineptitude, pride, elation, confusion, you name it. On Day 5, after dinner, I sat on a bench in Rittenhouse Square—three drinks deep, Lou Reed coming through my headphones, head tipped over the back of the bench watching trees connect with sky. It was psychedelic, really. To find respite from a privileged superficiality of your own invention. It was what I needed to remember that this isn’t who I am; this isn’t who anyone is, even those who live this way, because people can’t be whittled down to nail appointments and handbags. The High Maintenance Baddie is not an identity, but a transient state of being. 

I still love her all the same.

wistful in an Uber

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