I learnt about nipple covers yesterday. They are Band-Aids that you stick on your nipples when you have to go bra-less.
In the old days we used to let our nipples come out to play with us.
Beauty products fascinate me almost as much as yesterday’s photos of Kim and Kanye’s trip to Mr Wong in Sydney. Frankly, if I go into a shop like Priceline or the hallowed, pristine grounds of any of the beauty departments of stores such as Myer or David Jones, (complete with bitches disguised as evangelic goddesses in white coats), I become completely overwhelmed.
I can’t even pick a nail polish colour without hyperventilating.
When it comes to personal grooming, I have minimalised my needs to a short list of what HAS to be done, but as I get older that list seems to increase on a daily basis. Stray hairs, fugly lines and orange peel all conspire and require attention these days, whereas in the past I got by being relatively ‘natural’ with just a touch of mascara and concealer and a little bit of lippy thrown in when I was feeling really wild.
I didn’t have my first wax wax until a few years ago when someone referred to me as Magnum PI at a dinner party.
But my daughter is different – I might have mentioned before that that she was obviously switched at birth. The beauty section of Myer is like discovering the Holy Grail for NC. She wastes a fortune on ‘product’ and gets sucked into all the tricks of the beauty trade including dip-in nail varnish remover, nipple covers and expensive online ‘tester’ cosmetic boxes. She has only stopped at the Brazilian because she has her mother’s fear of bush exposure.
Yesterday, NC introduced me to the world of beauty.
We were sat, mid-scoff at our favourite dumpling house, (which is where we go to vent our troubles over five or forty of Din Tai Fung’s finest dumplings with a glass of vino), when the subject of troublesome facial hair came up. I will blame the second glass of Pinot Grigio for the impulsive decision that led us to the fatal decision to have an eyebrow and upper lip wax immediately.
What IS truly amazing is just how many women CHOOSE to get depilated on a sunny Sunday afternoon in Sydney. After trying several salons, we eventually found one that would accommodate us with some fierce-looking Asian women, (who looked as though they knew what they were doing), and who wielded their tweezers excitedly in our direction in readiness to get at our whiskers.
Cue THE MOST INTENSE eyebrow wax either of us have ever experienced, and that seemed to take FOREVER before I fell off the bed at the end, dizzy and looking like some raw, over-plucked chicken, heat and swelling oozing from my mutilated pores.
NC was in an even worse state. The Asian Gestopo informed me that she thought that maybe my daughter was allergic, such was her skin reaction to the hot wax and ‘soothing’ cream afterwards. After half an hour of hell and relieved to still have some hair left on our faces, we excited our torture chamber to expose our inflamed, welting faces to the millions foraging about Pitt St mall and tried to disguise ourselves with my sunhat and glasses.
A minor consolation for such abject pain was definitely in order so first we headed off for my fix at the lingerie department of David Jones, where I salivated briefly over the micro Agent Provocateur underwear THAT I WILL NEVER FIT INTO AGAIN, before purchasing three new pairs of vaguely attractive granny knickers, and then we headed to Priceline for NC’s fix.
But alas, it was all too much for me. I prevaricated for twenty minutes between eight different Revlon shades of red nail varnish that all looked the same colour to me (and which all matched the redness of my face perfectly) and then felt an anxiety attack coming on and excused myself, leaving NC to ruminate over fake eyelashes and adhesive nipple covers.