Is that me?

This is not me, but might be my blond colour

I've just come back from an afternoon at the hairdresser's. Colour, meches, cut, blowdry, the whole nine yards, quoi. Cost an arm and a leg but I think it shows i.e. I look spruced up and no longer a root-showing lacksadaisical scruff which is what I really am at heart.

While I was there I was offered a make-up session for free. The salon has a beauty salon a couple of doors away and if business is slow, one of the girls comes in and offers hand massages or make-up. I usually get offered the massage, today I must have looked in dire need of the make-up.

Maybe the previous evening's late night dvd and rosé wine session with my TWDB was showing a tad. Anyway, I don't take offense easily (unlike some who never seem to stop) and readily agreed to beautification. The girl herself was lumpy and ungainly. Not exactly the glamorous beautician whose svelte good looks has all us lesser mortals grinding our teeth. She had nice make-up though so I supposed she knew what she was doing.

Actually she did a good job considering that the material she was working with had more than a touch of sun from the weekend, eyes that watered whenever she went near them and a head full of colouring hair. I suddenly thought I should really be taken out to dinner on this rare occasion when I look a lot better than usual, but my TWDB is on his Gerlinea diet this week so I'd probably have to take myself out and that's of limited fun.

Hours later (or so it seemed - I went through two lots of Gala and one VSD although, yawningly boring, it didn't take long...) I was having the meches sorted, then the whole lot was cut and dried. Pity I wasn't dressed up for the occasion but was wearing my ratty old sandals. Time for some new ones, thought I recklessly. Off I headed to the nearest shoe emporium and found... nothing. Nothing that suited, nothing that suited that was in my size, and any likely contenders when tried on were unbearably uncomfortable. So I put my ratty old sandals back on and, by now, bored stiff of the whole business, went home.

I can't have anything to nibble or drink until I see my TWDB because my lipstick will bugger off and I want him to see me professionally sorted. Damn. I should have bought the lipstick - a raspberry-type colour, lovely for summer, but I was reeling somewhat from the cost so decided to leave it until another time. Bad choice.

I also got a 10% off voucher for a 'soin' at the beauty salon and now can't decide whether to spend it on a pedicure or face massage. Agonising, isn't it, decision-making?

Skin Deep

I think I might have mentioned that I'm trying to stave off the early morning alien look with a daily application of l'Oréal's Revitalift. Is it working? I wouldn't say so, no. Am I surprised? Not in the slightest. It gives me the satisfaction of 'trying', however. Maybe that's what sells beauty products - you know it won't do anything because no product is allowed to be effective beneath only the top layers of skin, and as our problems start deeper down, only more radical medically-monitored treatments have any hope of making an improvement.

Not sure I'll succumb again to the triumph of hope over experience...

However, having realised that my 40s are the last years I may expect to have decent skin and enjoy the last knockings of youth, I have taken to looking after myself with a bit more care. A daily scrub in the shower with one of those netting things that look like they were originally bags that held oranges and were scrunched together to form a netting ball thing on a string, followed by 'hint of summer' body lotion (Carrefour's own brand) and those vitamin 'perles' that prepare your skin for the sun.

Well, I do live in the south of France, and have to go out sometimes. I also don't wish to look that pale and interesting - a nice golden honey colour is much more attractive than the blue-white pasty look, so it should be easier to achieve with all this stuff.

There's nothing like a bit of panic to get me moving. Result: my skin is nice and soft - no bumpy bits, scabby bits, dry skin bits, and it does have a healthier glow. If one is kind to others, there's no reason why one shouldn't be kind to oneself too!

My eldest found a photo of me when I was 20 - one of those ones taken in a photo booth. He'll go far I'm sure - he said to me "Oh mummy, you haven't gained a single wrinkle!" Not true of course, experience putting paid to any hope of that, but at least he didn't say "Oh mummy, you look so YOUNG here!"

I'm sure I would have signed up for a facelift on the spot!

Beauty and the Test

I was intrigued to discover today that although the early morning alien look is creeping up on me, my Real Age is actually only 23. I did some 'fun' test on Facebook today, stuck in all the details of my exciting (ahem) life and it seems I'm barely more than a teenager inside.

Which makes me wonder how old I'll get, and whether I'll be skipping about like a mountain goat aged 90 because inside I'll only be 69.

To be so young and spry is easy. Take one divvy unchallenging unstressful job. Mix in some exercise and reasonable food. Take out all the smoking. Add a little alcohol (no, that does not include 3 glasses of wine and a G&T per day...), some good friends, and soak overnight.

If you're on Facebook, take the test and swap notes.

Encouraged by such obvious glowing health, I signed up for some beautiful-me treatments on Monday. It's a holiday for me so rather than get my hair cut, I'm going to get tortured and buffed to within half an inch of my pain tolerance levels. I was reading on the internet site of the place I'm going to that there's a method for ridding the body of extraneous hair by some light system. I was all enthusiastic at such a painless-sounding treatment until I phoned for the price. "You want 'alf a leg done, mate? Tha'll be a hundred nicker..." On second thoughts, maybe I think I can put up with a little pain finalement. I gave birth twice without painkillers (and not from choice I might add), what's a little sting here 'n' there?

Talking of pain, ever tried ripping out top lip hairs? It's excruciating! But as we young Real Lifers get on a bit, those damn hairs just keep on sprouting and before you know it, you've got a friggin' moustache! So out they have to come. And OUCH as out they come.

Beauty is sooo painful.

Cellu-lie Creams

The ResidentAdo is 16, tall, slim and pretty, and yesterday tried to buy some cellulite cream. After we had picked ourselves up off the rather grubby Carrefour floor, we told her that they don't work.
"They don't work" we said.
"This one does" said she.
"No, none do" we said.
"Yes, this one does" said she.
"It's a con, they don't work, it's the rubbing that helps" said I.
"Get your mother to buy it" said her father.
And that was that, she put it back and I suppose we'll see what she can get out of her mother.

I wondered why a young girl might think she needs to rub a bunch of dubious chemicals on her legs to get rid of imaginary cellulite. Well, we are in France, home of the gullible magic-potion/pill-for-all ills-believing woman, but really, SIXTEEN!

French women spend a fortune on these cellulite creams when a healthy diet, exercise and drinking lots of water is all you need. I remember my mother saying that when she was enduring radiotherapy, she had to drink two litres of water per day. This was a bind and the treatment was wearing, but on the bright side, she lost the cellulite on her legs.

Studies continue to show that cellulite creams don't work, but apparently women who use them are like Creationists: they don't accept the science, they want to believe the fantasy. Who wouldn't? It's boring drinking lots of water, it's tedious having to get out there and exercise, and it's often dull eating a healthy diet. They involve a potential lifestyle change from hedonistic self-indulgence to more healthily rigorous self-control. It's so much easier just to fork out 20Euros plus and enjoy the sensation of applying specialist silky creams on one's legs.

The thing is, you don't need to spend wads of cash on cellulite cream as they do no more than moisturize legs. You can get the same effect by keeping the skin exfoliated with some sort of mitt and massaging in normal moisturizer regularly. French women spend a lot of time looking after their bodies and it's probably this regular application of creams which help them keep cellulite at bay. As they get bigger, however, I think we'll be seeing more dimpled behinds on the beaches in the summer.