A Hair's Breadth from Kate Moss

by Mistress Justine Brown



James Brown with his friend, Kate

About a year ago, I read about how Kate Moss' old pal and hairstylist, James Brown, who she's known since her Croydon days, was opening a salon in a quiet spot off London's Oxford Street, the hugest and most frenetic shopping promenade in Europe. A big fabulous party was held, and Kate Moss did her best to help her friend promote his new business and line of hair products. Strolling along Wigmore Street (yes, Wigmore Street), I spied the salon and darted in on a whim. Why not get two big silver streaks at my temples? I said to myself-- in spite of what I wrote on this very subject not so long ago (see "London Hair Trends Redux").

The picture that started it all

The sensible Irish colourist talked me out of my silly idea and into a better one. Why not get two big creamy blond streaks to complement my already bleached hair? The salon was relatively quiet when I went there, so I had no chance to goggle at the clientele. But I had my ideas about them. I made a lunchtime appointment for the following Tuesday.

I reasoned that half their customers must be made up of streaky blond Kate Moss fans and wannabees, all hoping, like myself, to hear the words "Hey, you look a bit like Kate." I was ready to settle for "Hey, you look a bit like Kate's fat older sister." Or even... no, Mistress Brown has her (now radically depleted) dignity to maintain. Anyway, it turns out that I was by far the most deluded person in the salon. It was peopled by serious style folk of all ages and walks of life. Each one of them had a clear idea of the look they were going for, from the tailored young man with the shiny black 80s-esque short-back-and-sides to the gallery-going seventy-year-old lady with the severe gray bob. Not a blonde in sight. (By the way, if you want to see the women who share my affliction, go down to Top Shop, where Kate has a line of clothing inspired by the contents of her own closet.)

I made my usual mistake with hairdressers. When, before touching my hair, Antony kindly complimented me on my overall colour, I blithely replied "Thanks. I do it myself." I even mentioned Clairol's brilliant newish product, Perfect 10, which really does give a great result without wrecking the hair, all in ten minutes. Might as well have slapped him in the face with a wet fish. Why do I do that? Not only is it churlish, it's dangerous. I mean, this is the guy who is about to apply toxic chemicals to my hair.

I told the cheerful, friendly shampoo girl about the Skool, and she said she'd quite like to attend. I told her about how a Skoolgirl who shall remain nameless was documenting her Obagi Blue Peel (watch this space!). And although the colourist stayed mum, the shampoo girl did mention Kate. Yes. I didn't even have to raise the topic. We looked at the current copy of ID magazine featuring our heroine on the cover. Her hair was short and dark, and she looked about fifteen. I couldn't believe it was a new photo, but it was. Apparently James Brown, who styled the shoot, had to encourage her a little to wear that wig, but in the end they were both thrilled with the results. "I had my hair like that when I was a teenager," I hinted embarrassingly. Nuthin'. Not a sausage.

And here's Mistress Brown just last week.I mean, throw me a bone here, people!

I came out of the salon all freshened and styled and feeling glamorous. I had big golden hair. "Look! Doesn't she look like Kate Moss?" I heard someone whisper, and I turned to see the slender teenager who had caught everyone's attention. Oh well. I reckon I'll go back to the James Brown Salon though. Antony steered me out of hazardous waters hair-wise, and he deserves some courtoisie. Plus, the fantasy is worth the price of admission alone.

Needles and Pins

article and illustrations by Mrs Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

Soo Catwoman graces the cover of the NME

 

 

The Queen has always been a style icon

1977 was a bumper year for new music. It was also the year that I flipped through NME magazine and saw the safety pin being used for something other than a diaper or a kilt. The pin's status had been elevated from the unassuming utilitarian item found in the depths of a drawer or bottom of a pencil holder to the latest must-have (punk) defining accessory. The prolific use of that household item made such an impact that I had to run to my mom's sewing kit and see what was available for my own purposes. What a goldmine! She kept a well-stocked old cookie tin full various-sized pins that never saw the light of day. I selected one that I thought to be the perfect size. Yes, I said to myself, this needs to go in my ear.

Never having had my ears pierced, I spent a moment contemplating how I was going to execute the task. I tested the waters, poking at the skin. Ouch. I quickly realized I would need a much sharper needle (back to the sewing kit, and to the freezer for some ice). I even went so far as to grab a Bic lighter to sterilize my surgical implement. Not bad, I thought, as I surveyed my medical supplies.

Face front class here are the necessary implements!

With the aid of Johnny Rotten screaming ‘fuck this and fuck that’ from the turntable and a hard day of pent-up teen angst, I hit the ground running. I sat at my vanity mirror in my pink-coated bedroom (to match the pink and red shag carpeting I had picked out for my 15th birthday) and tried to freeze my lobe with the ice cube. My fingers got too cold. I moved onto Step Two. With a shaky but determined hand I tried pushing the sewing needle in to my wiggly soft right ear lobe. It only wanted to accommodate the intrusive needle and stretched along with it as my ear wondered why it was being punished. Argh. It’s nothing personal, lobe, trust me, this is going to look cool. I had to stop and breathe. Okay-- let’s try this again. Finally, after a lot of snarling through gritted teeth on my part, it was pierced! A little blood, but I was smart enough to have some cotton balls at the ready – however, not so smart to know that hydrogen peroxide would have been beneficial.

Hastily I grabbed my new piece of ‘jewelry’ and inserted it into my freshly pierced ear. Closing the safety pin was a little tricky (read painful) but eventually I got it. Pride doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt. Try ‘warrior.’ Move over Sheena, the Ramones will be singing about me next! Ya, sure my ear lobe was red and throbbing and felt violated and betrayed but I was going to show off my new adornment at school tomorrow and nothing was going to stop me. Not even the fact that when I woke the next day, the victimized lobe was blazing hot and a tad puffy. I assured myself that my ear was simply adapting to the foreign piece of metal and eventually it would calm down.

Miss Thirlwell rocks the halls

I swaggered through the halls of my high school in a way that suggested, “I have just reached a new height of cool – ask me how.” Unfortunately, nobody did, so I had to go the extra mile and flick my hair back nonchalantly to unveil my handiwork. This was met with exclamations like “what the hell is that?” “does that hurt?” and “freak.” “Anarchy, baby,” I replied, “ nah” (yep), and “thank you.” It was obvious that my high school was not very progressive. The outlook was chronic Jock Nifty Journey with a sprinkling of Jethro Tull Stoner. By the time I got home from a long day of ‘show and tell’ and more teen angst, my ear lobe was the size of a golf ball. There was nothing safe about that safety pin. The next few days were pus-filled.

The second time I attempted to become pierced was in the doorway of a market on a small Greek island. It cost about five dollars to get the job done. My lobes became infected within 24 hours.

The third and last stab at giving pierced ears a go was at a community college. I was nervous about the lump of scar tissue that had formed in the lobe from the first two procedures but I hoped for the best. Surely the cosmetology program would be supervised with sterilized tools. I lasted about a week before my ears fully rejected the generic hoops. That’s it. Like a lady whose only choice is to adopt, I would spend my life wearing clip-ons. Although they fulfill the same desire they still aren’t really your own.

So maybe when multiple piercings came on the scene it only reminded me of my failed attempts. I wasn’t bitter. And when people explored new territories of punctuation I knew I would only be a spectator. And a listener: nothing says sophisticated like the impishly sweet lisp one acquires after having had their tongue pierced. Aw, you sound just like little Cindy Brady with that big fat dumbbell sticking through your tongue, how cute are you?
I mean edgy. Plus there’s the added bonus of the quasi-sexually suggestive distraction of said tongue-pierced talker spicing up the delivery of their words while playing tongue tag with their new slab of mouth metal. I know that for me, as an audience member, this is a mesmerizing way to spend an afternoon.

Are some of the other pierced areas of the body meant to be a type of code for things one would rather leave unspoken? For example, the barbell through the eyebrow, the dangling bellybutton chains, the hoops through nipples and places where no jeweler should have to venture.

Piercing for decoration can be a little confusing. I nearly made the faux paus of letting my local video store clerk know that she had a Tic Tac stuck to her chin. On closer inspection it was, in fact, ‘jewelry.’ I’ve always marveled at how people manage to get some of their piercings in what seem like tricky places. Did that dead bolt enter through your eye cavity in order to come out of your eyebrow? How does that work? How about those kids with shower curtain hoops in their earlobes stretched to the size of radial tires? And why am I so tempted to hang my dry cleaning from their ears while standing on the bus?

It seems the safety pin, like a collection of K-Tel hit-makers, had its fifteen minutes of fame and adoration and has been relegated back to its humble origins. No longer a statement of rebellion, now it mostly represents a lack of motivation for getting out the needle and thread to replace a button. But if, down the road, I’m feeling sentimental for that old punk rock feeling, I can take solace in knowing that when it comes time to wheel out the Depends, I can go the old school route and use a safety pin to secure them.

Skool Visit: Christie Mellor

Welcome, Skoolkids. We have a big treat today: Miss Alexandra Oliver has invited Ms. Christie Mellor, author extraordinaire, to talk to us about her writing work in the realms of beauty and beyond. Notebooks at the ready!


interview by Miss Alexandra Oliver
bonus: book review by Miss Justine Brown



our esteemed guest

AO: Ms. Mellor, first of all I would like to welcome you to Beauty Skool. We're all tremendous fans of yours.

CM: Thank you, I am so honored and happy that Beauty Skool has invited me to gab about my new book. And just generally shoot my mouth off. Fire away.

get the book! http://www.facebook.com/l/b14f7
www.christiemellor.com

AO: Well, that book really is a humdinger. I have to hand it to you. Finally, a manual for the over-20 set that respects our uniqueness and inner quirkitude! I find a lot of beauty books for gals of our level of elegance and experience to be either of the "throw in the towel and wear neutrals" variety or of the "you go, girl!" fierce post-Sex and the City variety. This was a like a drink of cool water, I have to tell you. What first tipped you off that the world was in need of a book like this?

CM: Because I was in need of a book like this! Maybe it was one too many "I'm forty and FABULOUS!" magazine covers sporting those ferociously  toned, done-up women who all look like they're staring down middle age. They rarely look truly glamorous, and they often look like a caricature of "glamour," like they were dressed by a five-year old who dreams of being Miss America. When I wrote The Three-Martini Playdate, I had the same feeling about those mad parents... "If my child gets into the right preschool and is enrolled in nineteen enrichment classes, he'll end up at Harvard! Quickly! You must learn Mandarin!" I'm seeing the same kind of "I can FIX this" attitude with a lot of women, regarding their own aging selves. Also, I'm going through a number of changes myself, but I never seemed to see myself represented anywhere. And I knew that if I felt that way, then there had to be others. I think there are a lot of women out there who are edging toward that certain age, and they're not really sure exactly how to present themselves anymore... so they either recede into the background or they take a staunch stand against the inevitable with a barrage of injections and denial. But there's a lot of middle ground in there, don't you think?


AO: I definitely think so. The media is so youth-driven, and that creates a climate of uneasiness that's hard to ignore. And I think those extremes you speak of reek of that uneasiness, both the beige-and-elastic-waisted pants attitude and the hot, supercougar attitude. I think a lot of ladies are free and adventurous spirits and what makes them so, stylistically speaking, can be maintained in their lives as they press on into the more elegant years. My philosophy is this: one gets more confident about life, about love, about work and ideals and being a parent and all that. One gets a thicker skin and (hopefully) develops a sense of humor. Shouldn't that translate into maintaining one's personal style? Anyhow! I waffle! What has the response been to this book thus far, both amongst your friends and in the wider world?

CM: So far, the response has been overwhelmingly positive. (Other than the fact that there seem to be two camps when it comes to the "waxing" question.) But overall, I'd say the response could safely be called "enthusiastic." I especially love hearing things like "coffee came out of my nose," and "hilarious" from people who are not close friends or relatives. (The coffee in question was not scalding, by the way, and it apparently came out by way of an abrupt guffaw, in case you were worried.) So, yes, to all of the above. I hope my book will encourage more of the free and adventurous spirits to feel more free and adventurous. And to find and embrace our elegant maturity. But you're right... with a sense of humor. We mustn't lose that. And if we never had much of a sense of humor about ourselves, it's a perfect time to develop one.

By the way, did I mention how much I love "inner quirkitude?" Delightful. I wish that had been on the back cover.

AO: Why thank you! Neologisms are very handy! And coffee did, in fact, come out of my nose, too. Tell me, how did the research process for this book differ from, say, your research for the other books?


CM: I'm pretty sure the research for this book has been unconsciously going on for at least a few decades. The impetus to write it came more recently, but it may have started festering when I first noticed that various cosmetic procedures were no longer the purview of aging actresses-- it was trickling down to younger and younger actresses, then the female population in general. Until now it seems many women think nothing of rebuilding themselves from the ground up at the first sign of a laugh line. People's idea of "beauty" has gotten narrower and narrower, and I'm sad about that. Although there seems to be a little bit of a backlash. I love some of these big-girl models who are starting to show up on the pages of high-fashion magazines. Even if they are considered "plus size" at size 10 and 12! What a world. But back to your research question... the research for this book was the MOST fun kind of research. When I wasn't reaching back into my brain for stories, I was looking up bad plastic surgery on the Internet, ogling lipsticks and experimenting with homemade scrubs and face-masks. Whee! I've always envied those women whose jobs require them to endure countless facials and beauty treatments and massages, and then report their findings. How does one get a job like that?? I ask you. Sheer heaven.
AO: One thing that blew me out of the water about your book was the sheer volume of marvelous tips. I have personally been rejoicing in the olive oil and sugar face scrub recipe. Have you culled any fabulous beauty tips since the book's appearance that you wish you'd managed to shoehorn in?

CM: Strawberries! If you have any smooshed ones you won't be eating, mash them up with a little salt or sugar, maybe a drop or two of olive oil. There are a lot of good fruit exfoliants -- oranges, papaya. Maybe I could have stressed how easily you can incorporate some of these tips into your life. For instance, you're mashing avocados for a lovely party guacamole? Just scrape off a few teaspoons' worth of avocado and rub it all over your face. (In your hair, too, if you're planning on a pre-party shower.) Continue your party preparations with a green face, and simply remove with a warm washcloth before getting dressed for the evening. Oh! And for a great mask after cleansing, smash some banana in with a little honey and olive oil. It's messy, but so good for your skin. This one is best done while you're soaking in your bath of asses milk, or lying down in a bed of lavender flowers. It gets drippy. Yogurt and honey is a nice combination, too. I don't think I mentioned that one in the book. Did I? Maybe I did. Oh! Rub an orange slice on your face and neck, it's a fruit acid exfoliant. You know, I just had a thought--my sons like to eat seaweed, so we always have sheets of that toasted nori in the kitchen. I'm thinking that a sheet of seaweed, dampened and placed over the face might make a nice mask. Perhaps not the toasted kind. Hm, I'll get back to you on that.

AO:  Summer is almost upon us; we at the Beauty Skool are filling out report cards, cleaning off the desks, rolling up the maps of our glamour empire and generally preparing for the summer holidays. How does your beauty regime change in the summer? How can we all look resplendent at all those barbecues and garden parties and beach sing-a-longs?

CM: I don't think we want to be laden down with too too much makeup during the hotter months. And it's kind of nice going bare-faced. Within reason. You want your skin to look beautiful and glowing, so use whatever it is you like to even out your skin tone, but just use it in spots. Find a comfortable, cool summer shift. Wear a straw hat. Put your hair in braids, or slick it back into a bun. Try out some orange lipstick. It may look awful, but try it. And if it looks awful, just try a red that's brighter than what you're used to. Or fuchsia, it really looks better on than it does in the tube. Just for fun. Or a bronzing powder on your face paired with dark red lips. Or bare lips and lots of eyeliner. If it's muggy and hot where you live, you'll find you want less of everything on your face, but think gels and stains rather than heavy foundations and powders. I need a little powder on my shiny parts, but I don't want so much that a little shine can't show through. You want to see skin and a few freckles in the summer, I think.Big gold earrings, a straw hat and flip flops, a cotton shift. And a big, sunny, lazy smile. Now, go find a hammock and a good book. Maybe have a little nap before that big party. I hope I got an A in Beauty Skool! (goes out singing "Teacher's Pet... I wanna be teacher's pet...")


AO: Tan or no tan?

CM: Well, too much sun really does do terrible things to your skin. And there's something to be said for being the pale lily-skinned lovely with the wide-brimmed hat, parasol and gloves. I really try to avoid the sun -- although a little romping around in it should really be done more often by everyone. And (gasp!) without sunscreen. We're not getting enough vitamin D! Just don't lie down in it for hours on end. If you are going to be out in it for hours, wear a hat and protect your skin. I have a bathing suit with fabulous three-quarter sleeves and a zip down the front. It's from Australia, where they make fantastic sun-protection clothing, because they have a big hole in their ozone. I feel very Bond Girl in it, and it keeps my shoulders from getting sunburned. But I do like the look of a tan sometimes, so I like to find a nice bronzing powder. A little dusting of bronze with some nice dark red lips, there's a good look. You don't need to go for the whole orange-y faux-tan, please. There's a reason why faux tans usually look so faux. When a person actually gets "tan," it's a very painterly combination of colors (depending on what your skin type is, of course) -- but pinks, Indian reds, and various golds and bronzes are often involved. And the color is never distributed evenly. So the best plan for making your color look as natural as possible is to dust a little bronzing powder on the bridge of your nose, your cheeks, your forehead and chin, your collarbones. Maybe your shoulders. Don't go overboard, and let your skin show through. If you're an overly shiny person, as I am, I usually need to tamp down the excessive shine on my forehead, for fear of blinding passersby. But leave a little shine on your cheeks and a bit on your forehead, so you don't look too powdered. Mix a little blush with the bronzer dusted on your cheeks, and maybe a swipe on the bridge of your nose. You want to look as if you just ran down the beach. And then quickly went back under your big umbrella.

AO: All right, you have your tan (or not), your hat, your red lipstick, your amazing sundress. What sort of shindig do you like to throw at this time of the year? And what's the de rigeur drink of the season? I long, personally, for my father's Pimm's cup.

CM: I love to have small groups of friends over, rather than giant parties. Spontaneous get-togethers and last-minute gatherings are fun in the summer. Well, anytime, really, but in the summer the days are especially long and the working stiff might be more prone to extending the weekend, or having little cocktail parties, even on school nights. You can keep it really simple, food-wise, because generally people don't want big heavy meals on warm nights. I planted something like nine or ten different heirloom tomato plants this year, so theoretically I should be able to throw together a tomato salad in a pinch. And that would be dinner, with a crusty bread, olives, cheese. Just scour your local farmer's markets and get what's really fresh. I make a salad that everyone always oohs and aahs over, it's simply chunks of fresh orange and red onion tossed up with a little red wine vinegar, nice olive oil, some of those dry-cured Moroccan olives, salt & pepper... it's deeeelicious, and everyone always asks for the recipe. So easy. Ooh, I really need to try a Pimm's Cup, I've never had one. I will try it this summer, I promise. A gin & tonic screams "summer" to me. Okay, maybe it doesn't scream "summer," it sort of calls out lazily from the reclining lawn chair. I love a crisp gin & tonic when the weather changes and a martini just won't stay chilled on a warm evening. Garnished with lemon or lime, I'm not a stickler. And if you want to get fancy, there are some interesting tonics out there that are worth trying, ones that use actual sugar instead of corn syrup. They can be pricey, but fun for a splurge and very tasty. Mmm, what else... Campari & soda with a good squeeze of fresh orange, very refreshing on a summer night. There's this old Italian red vermouth I'm in love with, Carpano Antica. Yum. Pour it over ice, garnish with a slice of orange. Adjust the brim of your stylish hat. Sip. It's one of those bitter-ish, off-sweet tastes. So good. I sometimes make a martini with gin and Antica, with a twist. You'll really have to come over and try one. OH, by the way, I DID get an orangey lipstick the other day, never thought I would in a million years. But I took my own advice. Plus, being very budget-minded I took in six empty MAC lipstick tubes, which--if you don't know this, you should--MAC recycles, and they give you a free lipstick for every six empties. SO, since it was free, I went out on a limb and got this very bright orange-y color, "So Chaud." Paired with their "Redd" lip liner, it's really smashing. It also looks great topping off other reds and browns, to brighten them up for the summer. The other day I wore it to an afternoon party and felt just like Grace Kelly in my pale aqua cocktail dress and sandals, if not quite as svelte.

AO: Enough said! I hereby declare this summer open! (Cuts ribbon, smashes champagne bottle.) And thank you, Ms. Mellor! You're welcome at Beauty Skool any old time!

book review by Miss Justine Brown
 

As I was reading Christie Mellor's delightful new book, You Look Fine, Really (HarperCollins), I stumbled across a sympathetic reference to Birkenstocks. Uh-oh. Now, Birkenstocks are the subject of one of my trademarked rants. I'll try to control myself here. To those of you who say "but they're so comfortable!" I have four words : they had better be. Matters between me and Those Sandals grew worse when my college boyfriend effected what you might call a Breakup Through Birkenstock. This boyfriend was familiar, doubtless too familiar, with Miss Brown's Birkenstock rant. So I knew it was no accident when one spring day he came home resplendent in shorts and a brand new pair of 'stocks. This was not a man who liked to buy shoes, especially $100 pairs of German sandals. It was okay though, he assured me. The shoes were so well built that he could wear them for the rest of his life. He fixed me with a meaningful glare and walked away, footgear flapping. For all I know, he is wearing them today. In the 'stocks. With socks.

Christie Mellor and I may never see eye to eye on this explosive subject. But that's all right, because we're in full agreement upon pretty much everything else. You Look Fine, Really offers big laughs and beauty advice-- not something we often get paired in women's magazines, for example. Actually, it offers big laughs as beauty advice. And, reminding us that beauty is just one part of the picture, Ms. Mellor turns to other crucial topics as well, such as cooking, parties, and play. I knew I had found a kindred spirit for sure when I came upon, reproduced in the book, the classic pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey set (mask included) that still hangs upon my wall.

"I say it's high time we do less, but with more style, " Mellor declares. She encourages us to abandon the dead-serious, frantic fight against time and pursuit of perfection so typical of our era. Instead we should find our essential style recipes and have fun doing it, never forgetting to consult our friends.

Many Skoolkids will know that I like to play Desert Island Essentials. What five beauty products would you want in your kit on Gilligan's Island? Number One on Mellor's list has got to be red lipstick. Now these red lipstick ladies are lucky, because to wear it well is to look totally pulled together. A slash of red lipstick makes a woman look properly made up. It even makes her look coiffed and dressed. Red lipstick is like an entire outfit-- it creates that much impact. Though I'm not sure it could compensate for total nudity on a supermarket run, say.

We get the lowdown on the author's wide collection of red lipsticks and a list of the best ones-- Mac always please the crimson lipstick crowd, but Mellor gives us some rarer examples too. Her collection makes me feel better about my own drawer full of nude lipsticks. For although I heartily endorse the red in principle-- if you're one of the lucky ladies who can wear red lipstick, you will look like a star from the golden age of Hollywood-- unfortunately, I've never found one that didn't make me look like a Russian doll, and thus my makeup and fashion routine is horribly complex. I think my red lipstick syndrome is a rare one, however. Be like Ms. Mellor-- try lots of different shades.They say there's a red for everyone.

Miss Brown at left, directly after applying red lipstick. Cute in principle, yes...

Another strong point is the way this book takes on the exercise riddle. If you're like me, going to the gym makes you feel like a hamster on its wheel or the subject-- horrors-- of an anatomy class, all reduced to bits. Work out this cut of meat, work out that cut of meat. It's unseemly. And then there are the strange outfits one encounters (if you are stuck with the gym, however, look on it as a chance to develop your superhero persona. Choose a name, such as Workout Woman. Develop a logo and affix it to you chest. Wear a mask and cape!). Mellor for her part urges us to find some reward in exercise by choosing something truly fun. And by, as she puts it, what our forebears would call "living"-- climbing stairs, going for walks instead of driving, and so on; incorporating exercise into our lives instead of sectioning off a part of the day for something we hate. 

Several Beauty Skoolers have found an answer to the exercise riddle has come in the  divine form of Argentine tango. No, you don't have to march around with a rose in your teeth. Unless you insist. The more authentic form of tango is sinuous and smooth. Men are men and women can star in their own romantic movie. No dress, no gesture is too extravagant. Where else is it normal to wave fans between dances and whisper behind them on the sidelines like characters out of Dangerous Liaisons? Tango is something you can practice occasionally, taking the odd class and attending the occasional ball (yes, ball)-- or you can become an obsessive, spend outrageous amounts on the world's best-looking shoes, move to Buenos Aires, and open a hotel for fellow dance pilgrims. Intriguingly, Argentine tango has experienced a resurgence in the last fifteen years, and every city in the world seems to boast an active tango scene. (But I digress. This topic deserves a post of its own, clearly.)

Mellor's writing has that quality that for Martin Amis defines good style: it joins in the war against cliche. She likes to take a familiar expression and then turn it on its head. For example, discussing wrinkles, Ms. Mellor writes: "Of course I adore those little crinkles in the corners of my eyes. I've earned those delightful little laugh lines. I did not, however, earn those lines that seem to be forming around the sides of my mouth, no idea where they came from." The book itself is a useful reference guide, teeming as it is with handy hints and techniques, such as facial massage and homemade cosmetics. There is some very sound advice on organizing parties and generally creating a festive atmosphere on the fly. There are survival tips-- real survival tips, such as how to make a compass by floating a needle on a leaf. This book is much more than just a pretty face: it's a pretty face with Girl Guide skills, recipes and charm galore. Class, Miss Brown has added "You Look Fine, Really" to the Skool curriculum. And yes, this will be on the final exam.

Beyond the Valley of the New York Dolls

article and illustration by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

When I was twelve years old I wanted to be adopted by David Bowie. Not only did I want him for a dad, I wanted him as my mom too. I reasoned that along with the male protection of a father I would also score make-up tips that weren’t even on my mother’s radar. Plus there would be the added bonus of him bankrolling all the best cosmetics. I was completely infatuated with him and his Ziggy Stardust alter ego-- so I wasn’t sure how that whole parenting thing was going to work. I’m no Sigmund Freud, but I didn’t need a crash course on the psychosexual stages of development to tell me that this might be a bad idea-- eventually I kept it to a crush and abandoned the whole adoption fantasy. 

David Bowie as Ziggy Stardust

But what was it about fellows and make-up? Not you, Elton. The initiated were far more interesting than their uptight conservative-looking counterparts. Maybe having been raised as a hippie kid I was predisposed to being offended by the powder blue leisure suit-clad Six Million Dollar man machismo of the mid 1970s. Sure, plenty of guys in my high school were sporting their softer side with long locks. Some had even taken to feathering their hair. Their behavior was nothing short of peacock-like: it wasn't unusual to see a comb protruding from the back pocket of a pair of Seafarer flared jeans. 

Note, Skoolers, this is not the same cool little black comb the Fonz would use. No, this was a comb of a different color, literally. They were often bright green, pink, blue, etc. With a big flat handle and wide teeth, there were no secrets about the comb-size these boys were packing. The owner would reach his hand round to his back pocket and in one swift motion whip out his large- handled plastic instrument and with a flick of the wrist ‘re-feather’ first one side of the head then the other, returning the comb to its home. And perhaps because this hair care action seemed a tad on the prissy side, often these high school boys would compensate for it by walking in a more macho swagger or affect a deep Moose-like or Lee Majors tone in their voices right after the act. This topic doesn’t concern you Elton, put your hand down.

A 1970s teen dude in all his glory

If the comb had mistakenly been left at home the three-time forward shake of the head would suffice in reviving a feathered hairdo. But even that was a skill because you had to snap your head upright more vigorously than when bringing it forward in order to take full advantage of the aerodynamic wind-generating movement that produced the perfect effect. (Randy Rampage would use this maneuver in his punk heyday, particularly while performing on stage. Same move, different hairstyle). Probably the worst crime in male hair accessory vanity, though, was swapping out the bright colored comb for a big old hairbrush causing a rear protrusion of unnatural proportions resulting in justifiable high school hall snickering. 

Nevertheless, you still wouldn’t find the guys at my high school preening beyond their hair. So I admired those rock stars who ventured into their moms’ big cosmetic bag. But let’s be clear here: as much as I enjoyed KISS army, their use of make-up was purely theatrical, and I got the sense that they did not continue on to the bar in their slap after a show. I was convinced, however, that the New York Dolls did not own make-up remover or that they weren’t even aware that there was such a thing. Instead I reckoned it just wore off, eventually, by natural causes, and was then reapplied. This seemed somewhat more committed and authentic, if not a little hazardous to the overall complexion. People often mistook Johnny Thunders' acne challenges as a result of drug abuse when, in fact, it was really a disregard for a good face scrub, exfoliater, toner and turnaround moisturizing cream at the end of a night. Skoolers, if only he’d taken the time. Respeck. 

Both groups get bonus points for their ability to strut in towering platform heels. But before I get  ahead of myself I must give a nod to Alice Cooper. He may not win any prizes for overall even application, but he does get points for expressive use of eyeliner. Unfortunately, points are deducted due to an unenthusiastic, not to mention creepy, hair presentation. Skool was out for summer before the lesson plan on Hot Oil Treatment was devised for Alice. KISS also scores low in the hairstyle arena-- way too much frizz. But Skoolers, this lesson today is not a KISS vs. Dolls comparison; instead it is an exploration of the aesthetics of influential rock dudes. Elton, please take your seat, maybe sit on the piano bench next to Liberace. 

Which leads me back to David Bowie, idol, icon and not my dad-- unfortunately. Rice powder for the face and old school mascara-- the kind you wet and brush on, are just some of his tricks. An important tool in his cosmetic arsenal: eyeliner, kohl or otherwise... seriously, is there anyone who shouldn’t use it? But be careful with those lightning bolts down the face. Sure it looks classy on him, but it could look a tad garish on, say, Meatloaf. 

And what of the punk scene? Well, our West Coast Canadian boys didn’t exactly embrace the use of make-up. Once in awhile a cheap eye pencil might get passed among band members before taking the stage but rarely among the green plaid Mac jacket-wearing crew. There was no chance of mistaking the Subhumans for the Braineaters. Or any punk bands fancy enough to own lipliner. In the east, Toronto to be exact, drugstores couldn’t get their shelves stocked fast enough with eyeliner for bands like the Viletones. And as the music got darker, moodier, gothier in the 1980s, so, too, did the use of make-up among some of our local bands.

Evidenced in the photo below is the guitarist of Der Mittlegang, a shadowy Vancouver group who occasionally paid homage to artists such as my old hero David Bowie by wearing creative face paint. I decided to marry him (not Bowie as Iman had already sunk her claws into him) as long as he promised to finance most of our cosmetics and get his own eye pencils.

Class, meet Mr Chris Nicol!

Confessions at Scissor-point

by Miss Justine Brown

People often ask me how I get my striking and interesting hairdos. Here's the secret. Just like anybody else-- except when I'm in a maverick, DIY phase-- I go to the hairdresser. In other words, I succumb to intimidation. For who does not quail in the face of the hairdresser's fearsome array of weaponry: sarcasm, thinly veiled threats ("wouldn't your bangs look good just a little bit shorter?" or "I think eggplant is the shade for you!"), a gang of black-clad "assistants", various explosive chemical substances, and sharp objects galore.


And hairdressers are notoriously thin-skinned folk. You don't want to toy with them. From the moment you present yourself at the salon and set yourself down in front of the horribly accurate florescent-lit mirrors, you're on perilously thin ice. A glum seventeen-year-old with a broom will ask if you'd like a magazine, then go off to choose a suitable one. As you thumb through the pages of Longevity and  Plastic Surgery News, you wonder if there's still time to run away. Too late-- the Great One has arrived, blades glinting.

It starts with the hairdresser's careful examination of the state of your locks. "Who cut your hair last time?" Answer this query very carefully, paying special attention to the tone of the question. "You did!" is seldom the correct response. Go with drunken pranksters. You were passed out cold, and drunken pranksters did your hair. Hairdressers have delusions of grandeur. They like to think they are setting the world to rights. And that they are fine artists. By no means try to dissuade them. Remember, your hair is at stake. Your hair. Or maybe an eye.

Hairdressers have their little whims. I am afraid of these. To take a mild example, I had one who loved to introduce grease into my hair as a final touch, along with a zigzag parting (it was "grunge"). Now, my hair doesn't need additional oiling, let us say. When, during my third appointment, I finally gathered the courage to turn down the goo. "Oh," he replied blithely, "I mixed it into the shampoo this time." Too late. Once again I scuttled back to my apartment with a plastic bag on my head and spent an hour in the shower.


To take a more disturbing example, consider the case of the Goth Hairdresser. (They manufacture these beings in Toronto, by the way.) Garnet was a hairdresser among hairdressers. He was short and wiry, with spike-heeled boots. His hair was black, his skin a deathly white. He was dressed in head to toe skin-tight black vinyl, bristling with studs. He wore his nails an inch long, pointed, and polished midnight blue. And Garrett was angry: angry at the drunken pranksters who had made a laughing stock out of me, to be sure. But he was really angry at all his former clients.

Stabbing the air with his pointiest scissors, Garnet re-enacted the series of dramatic hairdresser/client conflicts that had led up to this moment. The clients were unappreciative (stab).They were unbelievably ignorant (stab). They lacked respect for Garnet as an artist (stab stab stab). Not me! I knew an artist when I saw one. I stayed rigid, a smile fixed on my face. "And then," shouted the man with the scissors, sweeping them millimeters from my wide eyes, "She made a suggestion. I ordered her out. Out! Out of the salon! I don't care if your hair is half done!"

Some of these people have a weakness, though, and that weakness is money. They want paying; they want tips; they want you to return (the peons!). Try to play this card wisely. Without this one thing to dangle, you are nothing-- the merest lab rat. Don't push it, or you'll bring out the latent artist and your money will be as dust. Oh, and never, EVER agree to become a hair model.


A typical victim

I was lucky-- when I asked, they dismissed me, eyes rolling. (I had specified highlights and long layers. Bo-ring!) It was a lucky escape. My friend Christine, who had naturally curly hair and a flexible attitude, wound up with something called a "channel cut" in fire engine red: they cut her hair to about two inches in length and shaved a diagonal canal across her scalp. Two big asymmetrical poufs adorned her head. The whole effect was very poodle-esque. Aesthetic heaven-- and free of cost!

Sometimes these hysterical hair hackers can be distracted. Lull them with tales of home hair adventures. "Did I ever tell you about my friend Terry and his home colouring kit?" I interrupted Garnet, just as his sweat was beginning to form on his brow. Terry is a drummer. He liked to dye things-- his Kraft Dinner, for example. He liked to dye it green. Well, one Hallowe'en Terry had a gig to play, and he decided to dress up as a Zulu warrior. It wasn't going to be easy, since Terry is fair, blond and blue-eyed. All he had to work with was a leopard skin loincloth and two bottles of Clairol's blue-black hair dye. If it would work on his hair it would work on his skin, reasoned Terry, and with the help of a bandmate he set to work covering his body in dye.

Imagine, those of you who have any familiarity with hair dye, the discomfort of this. He sweated hard at the gig, but woke up with largely blue-black skin and hair. It took about ten days for the dye to rub off. As his blond hair grew out from below, the black stuff looked as if it was levitating above his head. The final kicker: the whiter his skin became, the more it was apparent that the dye had blackened every single tiny hair on his body. Look at your arm and picture this.

By this point in the story I had backed my way as far as the cash register, where I paid handsomely for Garnet's artistry, tipping something like fifty percent to placate him. As I write, I am acutely aware that I need a haircut. I can barely see the screen. My ends feel like straw. Haircuts in London cost at least $80-- and then there's the added expense. Someone to abduct me and tie me to a chair at the hair salon.

All this suffering at the hands of hairdressers may derive from some cosmic payback for the hair misery I myself have created. Take the case of my poor step-sister, Sophie. When we were sixteen I convinced her to bleach her hair. She looked cool at The Clash concert, I decided-- but she wanted her old hair back. Choosing Clairol's Light Ash Brown, I confidently applied it to her hair. It came out green-- not the green of punk rock girls, the kind you choose. Not a statement green, but a sort of swamp green-- a colour that loudly howls "mistake." Turns out taking bleached blond back to brown is one of the trickier feats in hair colouring. I know what you're thinking. Don't think at me like that! How dare you! There are special rules for us-- the hair artists.

Yearbook Committee

Hello Skoolkids,

We are planning to round off the year with a review of Christie Mellor's latest book, You Look Fine Really, and we hope to include an interview with Miss Mellor as well. Then the Year Book Committee will treat us to an overview of the Skool year with photos and more. Stay tuned!

Super Models of Bad Behaviour

by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol
 

Models. The media is telling you that being one is everything and Tyra Banks is letting you know that you can be a model too. Yes, you transgendered Terry, and you too, legally blind Betty, easy on that catwalk there, girl. Holla! Move over Twiggy because Supersize Susan is hitting the runway as well. Missing a limb? Not a problem, if you can at least ‘smyze’ (that’s Tyra’s own word-- she’s trying to get into the Oxford English dictionary-- for ‘smiling with your eyes’). See? No one is left out. What a great inclusive world we live in. 

Prior to this current Modelmania ladies were simply hired to wear clothes in order to sell them. In the years leading up to the 1960s it was a basic concept and yet a glamorous occupation. Just ask Cary Grant, who wished he could have been one. It ranked right up there with being an airline stewardess. Models didn’t just model clothes; they modeled a lifestyle. The proof of popularity was evidenced in the availability of the outfits one could buy for one's Barbie doll. Mini Chanel suits and Pucci print dresses were abundant for Barbie’s life as a high fashion model, and while you may have been able to snag a nurse's outfit, finding a neurogeneticist's uniform for Skipper was near impossible.

Barbie in head-to-toe Chanel circa 1960

These pioneer women would model for print ads or slink around in fashion house showrooms. They showed up, did their job and went home. At some point things shifted and the demure model world lead to the birth of edgy (role) models like Andy Warhol’s tragic pet, Edie Sedgewick. Twiggy stood out as one of the first Supermodels in the swinging sixties – while the word ‘anorexia’ was just a glimmer in a psychiatrist’s eye. She set the standard for a new frame of body reference: literally a stick figure. Suddenly women wanted to look like they hadn’t developed physically beyond the age of ten. It was the start of western women starving themselves and claiming to their friends, “What? Dieting? No, I just have a really speedy metabolism.” “Me too.” “Me too.”

In the 1970s fashion loosened up as the post-hippie influence offered tent-like caftans, super-flared trousers and blousy shirts and peasant skirts. Yet there were also tight zip jumpsuits and micro-sized swimwear and the rampant use of cocaine aided many models in their strict adherence to a size 2. The Supermodel flourished. Her celebrity status produced the Supermodel Ego. No longer was Mick Jagger seen with run-of-the-mill runway models. Now it was standard procedure for rock stars to be paired with ladies easily known by their first name only: Jerry, Iman, Linda, and so on.

The 1980s leaned towards all-American pageant style girls like Christie Brinkley and Carole Alt. But just as a squeaky clean Cheryl Tiegs was hanging up her Cover Girl crown towards the end of the decade, a new crew was moving in. It was the late 1980s and with the heady combination of fame and loads of powdery drugs a new breed of Supermodel was born into the fashion world. This was the dawning of the age of the Naughty Supermodel. Gone was the sophisticated, demure, white-gloved gal of the 1950s, the quirky swinging Chelsea girl of the 1960s and the au natural mellow lady of the 1970s. KickAss Kate Moss and her shit-disturbing counterpart Naomi Cambpell kicked them to the curb by the 1990s. 

These amped-up models of bad behavior were clocked for all sorts of tantrums. They made most pop music divas look like Sunday school girls. Naomi Campbell, the female Mike Tyson, modeled air rage that soared to new heights. 

Naomi Campbell draws her weapon

Meanwhile Moss, the human Hoover, had the unfortunate luck to be saddled with the moniker Cocaine Kate. But between rocking orange jumpsuits on the side of the highway and obtaining frequent flyer points at the local rehab, these two seemed to fare just fine. In fact, their careers seemed to flourish.

Still, I can’t help but feel sad for the generation that got short-changed with these self-obsessed girls as their role models. Where’s the cool factor? And what about the current breed of pop music stars that young ladies want to emulate-- well-adjusted types like Britney and her esteemed colleagues? When I was about twelve Suzi Quatro, rocker chick extraordinaire, was it! Skoolers, if you’ve never played air guitar in front of your bedroom mirror and lip-synced along to “48 Crash”, well, I just don’t know how you made 
it this far.


 
Suzi Quatro rocks her famous leather jumpsuit.
 
At times her hair bordered on mullet country, but I let that slide. Joan Jett came in second. Here was another gal with a ‘don’t fuck with me’ sensibility who I found worthy as a role model. You can keep your Carole Kings and your Joni Mitchells. It was like choosing motor oil over alfalfa sprouts. You cannot run an engine with the latter.

Fortunately a few years later, Debbie Harry would become another role model for me which helped nurture my feminine side and reminded me that I was not, in fact, a member of the Ramones. Nor was I a member of the Runaways for that matter. She illustrated that a girl could still look tough and cool in a skirt and heels. It was all in the styling and attitude. Nancy Spungen? Not a good role model -- unless you are Courtney Love. And Courtney Love? Not a good role model – unless you are Britney Spears. You get the idea. Call me old-fashioned but how did the skank factor get turned up to eleven? It’s Pop Stars and Models Gone Wild these days. Where’s the freshness? This shit is past its expiration date. Can we get a little lady-like behavior over here please? Reminder: cell phones are for talking to people not for hurling at people. And put some underwear on for God’s sake! Yeesh.

Meanwhile I don’t recall ever looking up to a fashion model for life skills but Tyra has appointed herself to that position, doling out free advice for young women on everything from how to walk and talk to how to psychoanalyze your best friend. And then call her out.

You can’t see it but I’m ‘smyzing’ right now. Actually no, I’m smyking – it’s my own hybrid of smirking with my eyes. I do a lot of smyking these days. I’m hoping it delays the deepening of the parentheses around the mouth, deep crinkly laugh lines around the eyes, and increases the appearance of fine cynicism by 73% in four to six weeks. And the smyke or even the smyze actually makes one appear worldly and wise, like you have your wits about you, a must-have expression for any Supermodel. After all, it’s a fierce jungle out there.