Friday, 20 November 2009

Day one as La Pricey

The first think to tackle is, well, everything. The self-respecting girl should be shaving. Everything. Everyday. This is going to be a long week for a girl who wears tights in June to avoid tackling the lawn on her shins. Half an hour later I’m all done I feel like Barbie’s glandular sister. Almost.

As part of the depilatory process I am also expected to shave my arms every week or so. My Arm? The bits attached to my hands? Am I also expected to shave my palms? And shaving… there there’s going to be a hideous stubbly and totally unhideable re-growth. And I was pretty sure there was nothing there to shave anyway. Compromising (yes there will be a few compromises this week, you may say cop-out, I say self-preservation) I decide to epilate an arm to prove that this is a pointless exercise. Unfortunately as I compared arms it was clear that I have created an entirely new paranoia. I have forearms like a dockworker. Hirsute limbs simply do not grow overnight and so I have to conclude that I have been butch for sometime and am honestly rather annoyed none of my so called friends have mentioned to me even once that I resemble a yeti.

Is this why I’m single? In the same way I’d never date someone who looks better in skinny jeans than me, have men vetoed me? ‘Katy? Nice girl, but I couldn’t date someone with hairier forearms than me...’ Or worse, do the ones who have dated me like the way my arms wrapped around them are reminiscent of a hug from Dad? Thanks Katie, a whole new bundle of baggage.

Next I move on to tanning. This is a must for me because acording to my Oracle ‘pale is definitely not interesting’ which tells dull old me. A daily tanning session on a sunbed gets you a ‘sexy golden glow,’ but as it would take a year of sunbedding for all my freckles to join up into one giant uber-freckle masquerading as a tan I’ve decided to opt for daily faking instead. This takes forever, and my face is a wee bit orange already so who knows what I’ll look like by the end of the week.

Nails require thrice weekly touch-ups and I shouldn’t leave the house with a chipped nail. Ever. Falsies applied and painted a luminous shade of cerise I have realised that I can’t type, pick things up or scratch my face without poking myself in the eye. They are like ten camp light sabres and I can see these becoming the bane of my life. And I have to say that if it’s this difficult to type I can’t imaging how she wrote those books so quickly…

I look, well a bit chavvy and stupid. But at least I’m comfy, and my aura is ‘glowing’ because I’m wearing bright colours. Auras are important you know. This is technical advice you get given.

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