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.