Well, that’s an hour and a half of my life I’ll never get back, scrolling through photos of very beautiful, gamin, perky, whimsical, cheeky, sexy women with short, curly hair. None of whom was me, and none of whom I will ever remotely resemble, no matter the cut of my jib.
I then frittered away another half hour downloading and printing the ones I liked on a sheet of A4. But not the one of Sophie Okonedo – I have no self-delusions there. I just like looking at her.
Suffice to say I am hoping to find a new ’do that’ll do me as a reference for my long-suffering hairdresser. Both he and I need to get on with our lives.
Annie Lennox has never had this problem, and continues not to do so, judging by the picture of that goddess of short-hairedness in the Herald a couple of days ago as she railed against the iniquities of TV talent shows in the UK. Sisters (and brothers) aren’t doing it for themselves, apparently. It’s all about ‘the brand’, according to our Annie – a little tardily, n’est ce pas?
Come and work in magazine publishing, honey – we’ll show you ‘all about the brand’…
Just ask former Vogue Australia editor Kirstie Clements.
Nice young Richard Fidler tried to on the ABC radio the other day, but, in much the same way as Clements has assured everyone that her memoir, The Vogue Factor, is devoid of gossip, revenge and intrigue (in fact, devoid of anything of worth to a fashion dag such as moi), the conversation proved mild, elusive and diplomatic, and therefore no effing fun at all. Publishing is waaaaay too small an industry in Australia for any kind of ratbaggery – we have to maintain our consultancies, right?
Still, food writer and chef Matthew Evans managed to give Vogue Entertaining + Travel a fabulously bitchy serve in his book Never Order Chicken On a Monday a few years ago and he’s done all right for himself.
If Kirstie had just taken that memoir and shoved it up ‘em, she, too, could be carving up pigs in Tasmania right now.
I digress. So, that was one chunk of semi-precious time lost. For me, that is; I’m assuming you’re reading this because you’re here of your own free will. Or you’re my mother.
Large gobbets of my time and vanity this week were also consumed by lengthy, slimy tussles with my new Best Eye Friends, Contact Lens Left (reading) and Contact Lens Right (everything else). The first, getting them in; the second, getting them out, which was only marginally more excruciating.
Getting them in was followed by 20 minutes of banging into walls, missing door handles and jabbing at the wrong keys on my iPhone (nothing new, really), as Right Eye and Left Eye once again battled for optical supremacy. All so I wouldn’t have to wear my glasses to lunch with my mother.
Eventually, equilibrium was restored, which was handy, because by then I was driving.
Getting the lenses out that evening was merely a matter of fortitude and a certain dexterity ‘twixt thumb and forefinger. Neither of which I have much of (not thumbs and forefingers – I have my fair share of those).
I just can’t see them catching on.