I’m having a makeover.
A proper makeover with new hair and a stylist and make-up on my face. A makeover carried out by professionals, not a quickie done by my sister in the bathroom, involving the contents of her handbag, before someone’s wedding.
Don’t say it – I know I don’t look properly awful. You probably wouldn’t gasp if you saw me in the street.
But that’s the thing – you probably wouldn’t notice me in the street at all. Because things have changed a bit in the past few years.
My boobs have slipped a few, pendulous centimetres. My bum – never what you’d call ‘rounded’ (my branch of the clan is officially known as ‘arseless’) – has, through some miracle of physiology, got even flatter. My muffin top has a matching muffin bottom. No amount of huffing at the gym is changing it.
I’m okay with all of that. That’s called being comfy in your skin.
I am less okay with my hair. Remember earlier this year when J-Lo tried to convince us ‘bronde’ was a thing, when we all knew it was just another word for ‘mouse’? I’m on personal terms with its older sister: ‘gronde’. The grandmother of ‘bronde’. It’s not a happy union.
And I am not at all okay with the fact that I am suddenly incapable of buying clothes – or at least clothes that match how I see myself: ‘classic, with an edge’. Instead, I have developed real expertise in buying things that look excellent in the shop, but morph into dowdy when I get them home.
Things that wouldn’t be out of place in that cheap catalogue on cheap paper that gets stuffed in your letterbox on a Tuesday. Or that you might see at the bowlo, on people ready for cheap tea at 5.30pm.
The result is I doubt myself. And being full of doubt when facing racks full of clothes equals panic and then denial, and then wine.
Another thing: I’ve started buying things that I already have in my wardrobe. Another striped t-shirt. Another pair of ballet flats. Another cotton top.
It’s boring. Or I’m boring. I’m not sure which is more comforting.
But if you whinge enough good things happen. And because I am a world class whinger, I’m getting a makeover. A much more professional one than my sister grabbing my chin and rubbing disappointedly the half nub of her Mac Ruby Woo lipstick across my lips as we walk out the door.