Saturday, 17 October 2009

DIY Beauty And The Beast!

IT WAS a bad day in the mirror. A red-eyed monster with Einstein-inspired wild hair stared back at me. 
Dark circles under my eyes, straggly brows and the hint of – oh no! – a moustache made me grimace. Long, wiry hairs poked out of my tights and I was too scared to even think about, let alone look at, my bikini line.
‘What’s happened to the woman who sometimes looked like a woman?’ I gasped.
She’d vanished after weeks of surviving on three hours sleep a night. I could barely keep my eyes open most of the time.
So how was I supposed to groom, preen and glamorise myself while in a mummy-with-a-teething-baby coma?
Normally, I’d have taken myself off to a beauty salon for a head-to-toe beauty MOT.
But my career had been credit-crunched.
For the last few months I’d had to sacrifice new clothes, highlights, blow-dries and professional waxing and plucking for DIY fashion and beauty care.
Which to be honest meant showering every day and binging on cheap junk food so I had an entire new range of stylish clothes to wear – my fat wardrobe.
‘I’m a recessionista not a fashionista,’ I told myself, rooting around in the bathroom cabinet for my wax strips and tweezers.
‘Hairy legs attack,’ I muttered, warming up the strips in my hand, plonking them over the carpet covering my shins and yanking hard.
‘Mmm, not bad,’ I smiled, inspecting the bumpy chicken skin left behind. ‘At least there’s no hairs and it didn’t hurt too much.’
Buoyed by my home salon success, I set to work shaping my eyebrows into fashionably thick arches.
‘Now top lip,’ I said, cutting my leg wax strips into smaller slivers.
I rubbed the strips over my top lip again and again to make sure the wax covered every little hair. Then I pulled with all my strength.
My eyes watered so much I could only see a blur of red inflamed skin where the offending moustache had been.
‘Nearly done,’ I sighed, turning my attention to my bikini line. I was tempted to shave, but remembered the rash and terrible itching as the hairs grew back from my teenage years.
No, best to be brave. So I slapped on the warmed-up wax strip, waited and yanked. ‘Ooooowwwww, ooooouch,’ I screamed. Half the delicate skin had come away with the hair. Blood and bruises quickly flooded the waxed area.
‘I’ll just trim lightly,’ I told myself, slapping another strip on the opposite side. ‘A Brazilian would kill me.’
That side hurt just as much and bled even more. My bits looked like they’d gone 10 rounds with Rocky – in every one of his films. ‘I won’t be wearing a bikini or undressing in daylight for years to come,’ I shuddered.
But at least I was trying to look feminine. ‘It’s not that bad,’ I told the woman in the mirror as I dabbed concealer over my top lip, under my eyes, below my brows and dug out some giant pants to my freshly-plucked bits wouldn’t chaff against my size 16 jeans.
‘Presentable at last,’ I said, slicking on lip-gloss. My son was at school and it was one of the afternoons my little girl went to nursery.
‘I could have a look round the shops,’ I thought, feeling confident. ‘At least I’ll know what to wear when I can afford to be fashionable.’
It was fun mooching around on my own for once, without having to worry about warming up milk or sniffing Anais’ bum every 10 minutes to see if her nappy needed changing.
I was feeling great – and then I bumped into another mum. Her child went to my son’s school. ‘How are you?’ I said.
She looked me up and down. ‘I’m OK. Where’s the baby?’
I told her all about Anais toddling and starting nursery. ‘She’s such a big girl,’ I said, proud.
She nodded. ‘And who does she look like now?’
I smiled. ‘She has big blue eyes and she’s got my hair.’
I was so proud of her blonde curls and couldn’t wait for her hair to grow so I could put it up in cute bunches.
The mum’s mouth pulled back into a sneer. ‘Oh, she said, ‘so it’s frizzy?’
I didn’t know what to say, and just stood there, gawping.
Unperturbed, she turned to go. ‘Oh well nice to see you,’ she smirked. ‘And let me know if you want the number of WeightWatchers. They’ve started up a local branch, apparently. I know some of the other mums are going so you’ll be in good company.’
Cheek! I’ve never really liked her but been polite for my son’s sake. But now she’s a full on mum-enemy. Be friendly to her at the school gates again? Fat chance!

Have you been insulted by another mum? How did you get revenge? Please let me know before I bump into her again!

1 comment:

  1. Thanks for leaving a message on my blog. I came round and after reading about your health ordeal, I decided to comment on this less gruesome thread.

    Yes, I have been 'insulted' by other mums or put down by them, as some mums feel like I'm not fat enough. Before I had my girl I was size 6-8 and colleagues kept asking me if I ate, when my 'diet trick' was living in London and having a stressful career as a freelance subeditor. I had a job for a period and my boss hated me because she wanted to be thin, she once told me that she had dreamt of me wearing a lovely orange suit that looked divine on me! Needless to say I ended up resigning as she was a terrible bully.

    I was quite happy I put on weight after having my little girl, I have a more relaxed lifestyle and breastfeeding makes me very hungry. Except it's not enough for some mums who give me sour looks. Admittedly I'm less odious because I'm a size 10-12 now, but still I'm hardly anorexic! I quite like being this size as I can find clothes that fit me in grown-up shops.

    PS I'm the opposite of you partnerwise, I'm the crazy Italian, my partner is English.