Forgive the conceit, but I think that, in my former unbabied life, I managed to be slightly glamorous. When my hair wasn't plunging, lemming-like, down the drain, it was always GHD'd into helmet-like submission; I could prance, goat-like, in high heels, and I owned a pair of jeans that I actually looked good in (again, this sounds like bragging, but considering my upper and lower bodies are so at adds with each other, it looks like two different people were joined together at the waist, this is no mean feat). I even owned a stock of vintage dresses so that I could be pretentious at gallery openings and the like.
Ah, how I miss the polish of those days of yore. I think of them with the fond nostalgia of McCaulay Culkin remembering the eighties; they are a blinking mirage of fabulousness casting a shadow over the distinctly unglamorous me that stares back in the mirror every morning.
For there's no getting around it: I look like a potter. Not just any potter; a vegan one. Someone who eats sprouts and has an earthworm composting unit.
I have my hair to thank for this new image: having escaped the confines of its bob, its behaving like a defiant teenager. Not quite straight, it refuses to be curly either. Instead, it hangs around in unflattering frills around my face, making me look like a sad spaniel or, worse still, like Jan van Riebeeck after a late night.
Then there are my eyebrows. I have no idea what shape my eyebrows are, since I have been plucking them religiously since university. In fact, back in those days I tended to get a little carried away, and consequently resembled a surprised Marlene Dietrich. Nowadays, either my vigilance has waned or those little little hairs have become far more enduring - make that sneaky, actually, as many's the time that I check to see if a plucking is in order, decide the answer is no, and wake up the next morning looking like Fuzzy Felt has been affixed to my forehead.
By far the greatest contributor to my new down-home look, however, are my shoes. I actually have great shoes tucked away in my cupboard: shoes that make your heart give a little squinch, that are so beautiful you don't want to touch them. But there is little call for seven centimeter heels while I am doing a mommy shuffle, so I tend to stick to sandals. The problem with this is that I seem to have neglected updating my 'shoedrobe' last year, and therefore have to choose between several variations of hideous gladiators. They're all bad, but by the worst pair by far looks like they have leprosy, with little scags of old silver paint hanging desperately to straps that have started to curl at the sides. I hate to admit it, but these are also the most comfortable - which means that (arrest me now, fashion police), they're the pair I wear most often.
This week, I took myself in hand. Begone, aura of clay and kiln, I thought to myself - and so, in a moment laden with expectation and excitement, I stepped into Woolworths. Sadly, though, it has been some time since I went shopping, as my paranoia about Overstimulating Leya means thatr my outings are generally restricted to the kind of restaurants that have jumping castles and hot dogs on the menu. I therefore found myself terribly out of practice. Oh, the selection - there were flatforms and platforms, ballet pumps (not a great choice for summer) and sandals with narrow neon strips, with silk flowers, with kitten heels, with high heels - but there was not, alas, a simple, wear it with anything plain shoe, the wardrobe solultion my ugly silver gladiators presented all those years ago.
Bombarded by colour, materials and choice, I started whimpering. Leya started whimpering too. It was horrible. I turned tail and ran, as fast as one can go pushing a pram the size of a Hummer.
I now feel very sad: a golden opportunity to look like someone who understands what is meant by 'colour blocking', wasted. I now have to concentrate on rebuilding my shopper's focus and getting back out there, like a divorcee going out for drinks.
The only thing is, no matter how well I prepare for my next shopping excursion, the fact remains: I will have to walk into the shop in my leprous gladiators, hoping no one looks at them while I try on new pairs. A walk of shame, if ever there was one.
Ah, how I miss the polish of those days of yore. I think of them with the fond nostalgia of McCaulay Culkin remembering the eighties; they are a blinking mirage of fabulousness casting a shadow over the distinctly unglamorous me that stares back in the mirror every morning.
For there's no getting around it: I look like a potter. Not just any potter; a vegan one. Someone who eats sprouts and has an earthworm composting unit.
I have my hair to thank for this new image: having escaped the confines of its bob, its behaving like a defiant teenager. Not quite straight, it refuses to be curly either. Instead, it hangs around in unflattering frills around my face, making me look like a sad spaniel or, worse still, like Jan van Riebeeck after a late night.
Then there are my eyebrows. I have no idea what shape my eyebrows are, since I have been plucking them religiously since university. In fact, back in those days I tended to get a little carried away, and consequently resembled a surprised Marlene Dietrich. Nowadays, either my vigilance has waned or those little little hairs have become far more enduring - make that sneaky, actually, as many's the time that I check to see if a plucking is in order, decide the answer is no, and wake up the next morning looking like Fuzzy Felt has been affixed to my forehead.
By far the greatest contributor to my new down-home look, however, are my shoes. I actually have great shoes tucked away in my cupboard: shoes that make your heart give a little squinch, that are so beautiful you don't want to touch them. But there is little call for seven centimeter heels while I am doing a mommy shuffle, so I tend to stick to sandals. The problem with this is that I seem to have neglected updating my 'shoedrobe' last year, and therefore have to choose between several variations of hideous gladiators. They're all bad, but by the worst pair by far looks like they have leprosy, with little scags of old silver paint hanging desperately to straps that have started to curl at the sides. I hate to admit it, but these are also the most comfortable - which means that (arrest me now, fashion police), they're the pair I wear most often.
This week, I took myself in hand. Begone, aura of clay and kiln, I thought to myself - and so, in a moment laden with expectation and excitement, I stepped into Woolworths. Sadly, though, it has been some time since I went shopping, as my paranoia about Overstimulating Leya means thatr my outings are generally restricted to the kind of restaurants that have jumping castles and hot dogs on the menu. I therefore found myself terribly out of practice. Oh, the selection - there were flatforms and platforms, ballet pumps (not a great choice for summer) and sandals with narrow neon strips, with silk flowers, with kitten heels, with high heels - but there was not, alas, a simple, wear it with anything plain shoe, the wardrobe solultion my ugly silver gladiators presented all those years ago.
Bombarded by colour, materials and choice, I started whimpering. Leya started whimpering too. It was horrible. I turned tail and ran, as fast as one can go pushing a pram the size of a Hummer.
I now feel very sad: a golden opportunity to look like someone who understands what is meant by 'colour blocking', wasted. I now have to concentrate on rebuilding my shopper's focus and getting back out there, like a divorcee going out for drinks.
The only thing is, no matter how well I prepare for my next shopping excursion, the fact remains: I will have to walk into the shop in my leprous gladiators, hoping no one looks at them while I try on new pairs. A walk of shame, if ever there was one.
hmm... or you could just wait even longer until the gladiators come back in! Great post Lisa.
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