And yet more advice. It’s almost as though, as a woman, I live in a world where I am daily given beauty advice, and somehow feel I must fight back with my own, psychotic, scutty, no-frills whimsy.
As someone who is regularly asked how old she is—only for the answer to come back, “Oh yeah—that sounds about right. Thirty-nine, you said? Mmmm-hmmm. You’ve got quite dry skin, haven’t you?”—I feel it’s only fair to share the beauty philosophy
I have pieced together over my near four decades, although to be fair to my interlocutors, it does feel longer; it’s not the
years, it’s the mileage; and, yes, my skin is very dry. Sometimes, my face feels like one of those sachets of silica gel—inexplicably found everywhere these days, yet
able, when placed in the same box, to suck all of the moisture out of a pair of trainers! And who knows how! Or why!
- Small yet regular outbreaks of adult acne simply mean you’re more sexual than “normal” people. Feel self-conscious about the sporadic eruptions on your chin? Regularly succumb to flailing despair that you’re still fighting
a rearguard action with teenage acne at the same time as dealing with your own adolescent child’s burgeoning acne? Simply remind yourself of the fact that I totally made up: adult
acne means you’re so pumped full of irresistible sexual pheromones and sexy sex things that, yes, inevitably, they become
dangerously overheated and burst out on your face. Whenever, in weaker moments, you are in danger of feeling self-conscious
about what appears to be a re-creation of the Avebury stone circle around your nose, simply look everyone in the room in the
eye and say, “I apologize for being hotter and more irresistible than everyone else in here. It must be awful being you,”
scream, bow, then leave. NB: This exit works in almost every situation except when on a surveillance exercise. MI5 do not like this exit being used by employees.
- “Ringing in the changes” with your makeup is the ethos of a lunatic. There may be those who enjoy experimenting with their makeup, and to them—I wish you nothing but joy! Delight in standing
in the big Boots uptown and trying on seventeen different kinds of bronzer on the side of your nose! Thrill at the prospect
of experimenting with modish new makeup looks recommended in Grazia, such as “Neon Murderer,” “Confused Baby-Mother,” or “Pimpy Clown.” For the rest of us, however—those who found a “look” they
liked in 1994 and are, frankly, still exhausted from the task—I say: Dig in! Carry on! State your intention, loudly, to take
your current makeup regime to the grave. Stipulate in your will: “I will be buried in Rimmel eyeliner, ‘Hurrah! Britpop Forever!’
eye shadow, and whatever the fuck foundation is under £20.” Your motto is: “Ring in—the same! Experiment—with not giving a shit about experimenting! Be bold—in your obdurate belief that one kind of face per lifetime
is enough!”
- Get excited about slowly rotting! Over the last six months, my first big Aging Sign has made itself apparent: a wattle. My neck has started to gently collapse,
and I’m now rocking a small, dangly pleat in the middle—a little as if it’s been taken over by Hyacinth Bucket, who has decided
to “treat” me to some manner of dainty neck valance. Faced with these kind of undeniable evidences of aging, there are only
really two ways to react: either (a) becoming inexplicably shocked and angry about the nature of time, like some mad drunken
alien working on a Time Freezing Bomb on Doctor Who, and who will clearly have to be killed by the end of the episode because their plan to suspend all temporal advancement in
the universe is demented or (b) thinking of yourself as your own pet, and being gently fascinated and amused by the mad-ass
crazy shit that’s happening to you as you march on down life’s long path. Personally, I’m very fond of my wattle. I like to
stroke my wattle when looking out of the window and feeling reflective. If I really liked you, I would allow you to wibble my wattle, over dinner—so long as we were on the second bottle. I like having a new place grow on my body, with no effort from me—save having hunched over a laptop for twenty years while grimacing
and eating beef jerky. How exciting! Who knows what will grow next! Maybe I’ll develop an erectable scaly display ruff—or
a tail that can drop off when under threat. Everything to play for here! More jerky for me!
- Most of the time, it’s good to be clean. But also, I like to believe you are not the only one who finds your belly button smell intoxicating, and there’s a lot to
be said for being the one in your social group who nabs the nickname “the Musky Ox.”
- The cosmetics and beauty industry is valued at $19 trillion. Yet, without exception, everyone looks at their best ten minutes after a shag, sitting on the sideboard in the kitchen, wearing
an old baggy shirt and eating cereal. Next time someone tries to sell you Botox, designer gear, or lipstick, just say, “No
need, babe—I’ve got cornflakes and cock,” and stroll on.