Urged on to get glowing hair and creamy teeth, or is it silky teeth and dazzling skin– or anyway, just urged on to look like Barbie by a zimultizillion magazine ads, I finally succumbed.
Today, after a day of fumes and sun and paint dust, I pulled out the Neem face pack that I’d got as a freebie with washing soap. Lathered it on, and imagined myself emerging like Bo Derek from the water. Emerged from the bathroom to a shriek, and my 2-year-old began to howl, and wouldn’t come to me for half an hour after. I hurriedly washed off the Neem mask and my Bo Derek hopes.
I’ve had a hate-hate relationship with cosmetics all my life. I ate a bit of my strawberry crush face lotion in a late-night pregnancy hunger pang. My dog growled non-stop at my Mud under-eye cream, and when he got to it, he chewed it to little mud pieces. His under eyes have been glowing ever since. My sons play ping-pong with my 3 sunscreen lotions, none of which have ever been used, and have hardened into alien life forms. The burgundy hair colour which has Penelope Cuz tossing her glossing curls because she’s ‘worth it’, turned my hair into blood red spikes.
I never find the time to go the beauty parlour, and the one time I went for a spa massage, I giggled so much, they refunded my money and shut the door on my face. While growing up, I was more a tom boy than the blushing rose, and the only beauty aid I ever used was band-aid on my knees, from falling off a dozen trees.
So today, I cleared my bathroom shelf of the little bottles of 5-star hotel lotions and potions, and the guaranteed silky skin so-and-sos. And I picked up my still sniffling 2 year-old, who looks a lot happier now that his mama’s face is no longer green.
1. Nothing’s gonna change the way I look, except for a meteor falling on my face. Which I can live with, or in this case, live without.
2. My 2 little boys think I’m the most beautiful woman in the world, and Hey – that’s good enough for me… (that’s till they discover Barbie of course).