Ian Kershaw’s “Hitler” buggered up my look…
I need a departure on here. I can’t concentrate long enough to focus on even attempting to write anything about a film, never mind even watch one. I’m overdosing on heavy hits of eighties TV shows, Twin Peaks, and the odd prematurely cancelled series.
See that thing on the right? It mentions rambling.
For all intents and purposes, I think this is exactly what this can be classed as.
Rather than stressing myself out over the prospect of heading back into regular, institutionalized study later this year, I’ve decided to fully wallow in my feminine side recently. I know it doesn’t sit with the swearing and the action movies, but it’s facemasks and aromatherapy all round right now.
As you’ve probably gathered if you’ve stopped by here before – I’m not exactly a girlie girl. To put it bluntly, my idea of romance is less chocolates and flowers, more bottle of whisky and a Seagal movie.
Extra credit if you choose Bruce Willis.
That’s not to say I don’t take delight from things traditionally seen as stereotypically female.
It’s rather redundant in this day and age to call them stereotypically female anyway, but sometimes women are still made to feel shallow, or ashamed for indulging in such things.
Fuck that. To be ashamed would be to deny some of the simple joys I take pleasure in. And I love the accoutrements that come with being female…
I have a horrendous obsession with makeup. I own so much that I forget to use it. As well as having a day-to-day kitbag, I have a box for weekends, one for dressing up, one for photo shoots, and another containing all the tools and implements I need to do a full face on others should it ever be required. New formula? Five star rating? Jennifer Connelly likes it? The Magnum PI theme tune is used to advertise it? Hell, I’ll take it.
I have shoes everywhere. My hall is home to more pairs of footwear than I have clothes to go with. Some have never been worn.
In my defence, I did buy many during a bizarre period of my life in which I modelled for photographers, so things like six inch patent platforms, silver ribboned stilletos and glitter-encrusted spike heels can be forgiven…that period also justifies the purchasing of the ultimate wardrobe crime – a skintight latex effect catsuit. I know, Gok Wan would have a fucking fit, wouldn’t he?
Could I care any less? I paid good money for that slinky number. I’m keeping it.
I have an obsession with underwear and corsetry, buying way too much when I can’t even afford it in the first place. Again, in my defence, see above.
I once not only had bright pink hair, but a bright pink living room and a ridiculous amount of pink Swarovski shit hanging from the ceiling and windows. I don’t know what the fuck was up with that.
Possibly prolonged drug use, but who knows.
I finally came out of my Barbara Cartlandesque hell with a jolt during a heavy comedown, covering everything in sight with ghost-white Dulux one coat.
One coat my ass.
We gave up on the bottom half of the walls and painted those bastards black. Yes, the Rolling Stones song was played, much beer was downed, and a single tin did the trick. Back of the net, and the hair went raven again.
Didn’t last long. Within a couple of months the barnet was flame red. What can I say? I’d found a new and improved, brimming with pigment, guaranteed for six weeks dye. To a hair and makeup junkie like myself, who had previously spent every second week of the past two years with her head wrapped in plastic and worrying about rain – this was like some kind of holy grail.
For there is nothing better than finding something you’ve been searching for, whether it be a long sought after, kitchen-completing piece of gadgetry, an out of print book, a copy of a film you’ve been tracking down for years…or yes, in rather frivolous moments, that nail polish you caught in a magazine in a hospital waiting room but have since never been able to find in real life…until wait, hang on…could it be? Hallelujah. That holographic bastard above? It’s been found, via the medium of the varnish lovers paradise that is Lacquerized. Oh my God, it’s full of stars. I could stare at this shit all day long.
So having finally found the shiny metal bitch and purchased it’s ass, did it turn out like it did in the ad? Like the photo above?
Did it hell.
But then maybe the best time for a manicure doesn’t come after drinking a bottle of wine. Maybe it also helps if you have nails in the first place, not just battered and broken pathetic little squares of a flaky nature.
I work in a book shop. Here, nails are not for decorating. They are for peeling off 3 for 2 labels. For prising open boxes. For being part dissolved by paper-acid. For getting ripped clean off trying to pull out that shoved-in-too-tight tome on the Golden Age of Piracy…or the aforementioned book on the Fuhrer.
The only time I will ever have talons befitting of a “lady” is when I finally figure out how to take a pair of knickers down in false ones. It’s either learn that trick or refrain from pissing for an entire night, though in all honesty, the world of bladder infections and chronic cystitis is not one I want to be part of.
A pointless endeavour.
If you have actual fingernails though, it would look quite amazing…and I’d be the first to stare at your hands from behind my counter with a little hint of jealousy.
From now on I’ll stick to the occasional “Ooh” and “Aah” over these things and keep wasting my money on eyeliner.
Yeah. Definitely should’ve bought the Seagal.
I’m sure he’d go well with all these scented candles.