Image

During a short sharp attack of the flu earlier this year,  I was stuck on the sofa with anvils for feet flicking through the stodge that is daytime TV.  In my delirium I came across the alternative menopausal rage TV in the wonderful crapness that is "The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills" and "The Real Housewives of Orange County".  Unfortunately, it was not a delirium induced aberration, as following my convalescence, I continued to record both shows every day.

Unfortunately, it is a source of marital tension.  I do not watch these programmes in front of the children and rightly so.  It is a challenge explaining to them why they are a different colour to me.  Explaining why some peoples skin is made of a completely different material is just impossible.  I am also not permitted to watch these programmes in front of my other half.  He is such a snob!  So instead, The Plastic Housewives of Orange Hills have become my clandestine lover.  I watch the shows when the kids are asleep and the husband is travelling.  Dirty old me!

My real fascination with the shows, apart from the copious wealth, constant fighting, nervous breakdowns, therapy sessions, endless apologising and appreciation for those apologies, is the quite extraordinary faces on the main protagonists.

I would estimate 90% of the ladies on the show have had some facial surgery whether it be minor, scaffolding or borderline Jocelyn Wildenstein.  In fact one such wife states loud and proud "I might be married to a plastic surgeon, but I am 98% real".  Wow! High Five! Wouldn't 100% have been the correct number to crow about?  She says all this, of course, without moving a single muscle in her face.  

At the beginning of my affair with these programmes, occasionally the odd newbie would appear with the most gravity defying face imaginable.  I would watch more in shock that none of the regular characters would even show a modicum of surprise at the state of the guest.  It was like, that is a perfectly normal human looking face, whereas all I saw, was a post plane crash burns Count Almasy with fabulous hair.

The funny thing is, as I have watched these two shows over the last month, I have to say, the ladies are looking more and more normal.  I think one gets so used to that particular type of plastic skin, horse lips and eyes pointing north east and north west that it becomes the norm.  A bit like becoming institutionalised in prison.  But this prison is made of gelatine or silicone or utterly butterly or whatever they use.  It got me thinking that perhaps the odd nip, tuck, stretch and inflation here or there is okay if it improves your image and makes you happy, but only, if you are surrounded by like minded nippers, tuckers, stretchers and inflaters.  If you ended up the only "Shockface Peter" in the village, you may just stick out a bit.

Also, I don't believe I will find that in our polite society.  Sadly, they will never make The Real Housewives of Guildford.  People around here only own plastic under duress.  Children's toys are all wooden and no fun and plastic tends to appear from some mean spirited Aunty or Uncle who are determined to give your child the toy that they actually want as opposed to the wooden carousel you lovingly bought them that they can look at adoringly but NOT TOUCH!  As far as the personalities go, that would not work either.  The nastiest thing people might say here is "I can't believe Arabella left that fox poo on her footpath for another day.  What a douche!"

Back to image.  It is not something that has been of great importance to me.  You may think my desire for a "hard body" as per last week's post is a sign of wanting a great image.  I should submit my six month epilatory hiatus during the more wintry months as evidence of why image really is not high on my agenda.  That said, it is beginning to creep more into my brain, as the state of my image has become an issue of necessity over vanity.

I do not have the wealth of the Orange County and Beverly Hills ladies.  I probably have a smaller bank balance than their pets, so my dreams of having a small incision made in the top of my head and a sharp stretching of the skin upwards, much in the way someone pulls on a tight pair of socks, is going to remain a dream.

Shop bought solutions are all I can muster.  I have two facessentials.  I now wear YSL's Touche Eclat daily because the dark circles around my eyes are so bad I look like a racoon and also because Colin Firth's wife claimed she used it since the day it was launched and you never know, he might leave her one day.  I also wear Benefit Cheek Tint for a rosy glow and as many close friends will know, I have on occasion worn that out having forgotten to blend it in and have chatted gaily on the street to all and sundry, unbeknownst, looking like a clown or those old enough to remember, Aunty Sally from Wurzel Gummidge.

Admittedly I don't worry so much about the neck down.  The only folks who see that are the kids, who currently don't care and my husband, who nobody particularly likes.  He is not going anywhere.

The children will probably be the only reason for making any serious changes, as I would like them to have some pride in me and not because I look like a member of Gerry Cottle's Circus but because I can do an effective impersonation of a young cool Mum.  This was made clear, particularly harshly, by my three year old, who told me a few months ago that I had a beard.  I don't think I have a beard or any particular downy cheek fuzz.  

However, insane paranoia and an investigation after that comment did help me understand why he said it.  On holiday I wear large sunglasses that cover my entire eye area.  Therefore my overbrows and under cheeks get extremely well tanned which make me look like I have a permanent five o'clock shadow.

We are going on a holiday to the sun in a months time which I am really excited about and I have already planned my beauty regime for that trip.  The Touche Eclat, Benefit Cheek Tint musts, full body dipped in acid hair removal treatment and finally a balaclava to wear poolside to tan my eyes and even out my forehead and shadow beard. 

I think at the age of 38, two facial products that cost around £50 in total (which in my world is high end!) and a balaclava being the extent of my beauty regime, is quite a nice place to be.  

Of course those two things have not managed to fix the permanent facial atrocities such as the hooked nose, zits and crooked face that continue to plague my life.  I guess it will have to be plastic surgery in the end a la The Housewives or a more extensive range of balaclava's to match my 2013 wardrobe, which unsurprisingly, is exactly the same as my wardrobe from 2012, 2011 & 2010.