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| (Original unedited image via www.masterfile.com) |
For those five of you who regularly read my irregular blog posts, you’ll know that my 30threunion is looming. The prospect of seeing a whole lot of people who last saw me with 80’s hair and legwarmers is a little daunting (oh those aerobics leotard days!) Consequently, I’ve been pondering how I can present the best possible version of me, aged 40-something.
The problem is that my other attempts at any aesthetic improvements have gone horribly awry. Need I remind you about the time that I decided to wax my top lip and lost the courage to rip it off due to the ungodly pain? (I’ve subsequently found out that you’re not supposed to let it set hard before you RIP it off – alas, information I could sorely have used before!) Ah yes, who could forget me walking around for weeks afterward with little flecks of wax on my upper lip.
But there’s a few past improvements we haven’t yet explored. I should start with my hair. By way of introduction, I should by rights put “hair taming” as a unique skill on my CV. Since I can remember I’ve been wrangling my hair – with little success. The wild curls and frizz manage to assert themselves no matter what.
When I was in Standard 7, I was invited to a Matric Dance. The fellow in question was a hot surfer and quite frankly, I couldn’t believe my luck. I stumbled upon him when Exotica, my two cousins and I developed a fool proof tactic to meet hot guys. We’d eye the chap in question, decide on a name, and rush up to him saying “Steeeeeve! How awesome to see you! What are you doing here? It’s been so long!”. The bewildered fellow would then insist he’d never met us in his life. We’d then fake our apology, claiming that it was all an innocent mistake but that it was nice to meet him anyway. And voila! Thus, we’d made our introduction. (In retrospect, it was more an ambush than a tactic.)
Anyhow, the night of the matric dance came about and I asked my mom take me to have a blow-wave – which was the only way to get the curls out. She obliged (bless her), but we both forgot an important detail. The matric dance was in Hillcrest, a part of KZN that is known for heavy mist.
Those of you with straight hair will never be able to contemplate the risk that precipitation poses for someone with frizzy hair. As we pulled up to the school hall, the mist was thick as can be. And while Matric-Dance-Boy insisted that we hang around outside the hall to wait for his friends to arrive, I felt both my hair and my panic rising. The result was way, way worse than Rubenesque curls. It was beehive in height, and rather than curls, I had kind of straight, frizzy, poofy hairstyle going on. I’d have been welcome in a band with Diana Ross. To make matters worse, it would seem that ALL the other girls had gorgeous, sleek, obedient hair. It was a long night.
My next Version 2.0 effort saw me getting fake nails for my best friend’s wedding. For the life of me, I have no idea why I thought it was a good idea. I think it was an attempt to look more feminine as I’d recently cut my hair super short and looked like my brother’s brother. What nailish people don’t tell you, is that there are a whole ton of things you can’t do once you have long nails. Opening car doors becomes a nightmare because they hook underneath the bit that hinges. Grabbing anything, for that matter, becomes a subtle art. Because you can’t use the tips of your fingers to grip, you have to kind of lay them flat. (On this note, scrunching up and holding a wad of loo paper becomes almost impossible – but we won’t get into that.) I spent the night alternately dropping things and tapping on my wine glass, well, because it was such a novelty to have tappy nails. The very next day I was found ripping them off one by one and nibbling on what plastic was left in an effort to get them off. (Side note: Like a bad boyfriend, I gave fake nails one more try. I put DIY nails on and went to dinner. As I was squeezing lemon on my fish, one took flight. I still don’t know where it landed.)
More recently, I thought I’d give the fake eyelash trend a bash. I’m not even gonna tell a lie – I think they look awesome, even if they do look fake. Anyhow, I spent fifteen million hears of my life getting them put on and they were irritating AF! It felt like someone had dropped a ton of mascara on my eyelids, but scratchy mascara, with little knives. Almost immediately, I started pulling them off – which left me with a truly awesome look as some remained and some came off. I looked like I’d been in an unusual bar fight where you have to randomly tear eyelashes from your opponent’s eyes.
Then, this morning, just as I thought I might get myself some fillers in my lips, I saw a lady in the gym which reminded me why I shouldn’t. Lips, it seems, are defined by definite lines. As we age we lose pigmentation which means that even if you plump up your lips, it just makes your top lip look kind of puffy. Like you actually don’t have lips. Like you’ve been injured, or just been to the dentist. So ja, fuck that shit. It ain't gonna fly.
Of course, I still have one last trick up my sleeve: weight loss. Though I must be honest here, as time draws near my google search history has switched from “How to lose 30 kgs in 3 years” to “How to lose 30 kgs in 3 months” to “How to lose 30 kgs in 3 weeks”. And if you watch this space carefully, I might even share how I successfully lost 30kgs between the time that I left Cape Town to the time that I arrived in Durban. But don’t be too hopeful. I know I’m not.
P.S. I feel my current orthodontic braces are the cherry on the cake. In order to limit lacerations made by the metal braces, I’ve not only developed a list but also now possess the special skill of “spit-shower speak”. Lucky me. Wear your raincoats to the reunion folks.
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