On The Fringe

Article and illustrations by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

Mr Mark Bolan's famous hair

How often have we heard ourselves complain about the texture of our hair? It seems many ladies yearn for the opposite of what they possess. For example, gals with curly hair long for straight and vice versa. I happen to be an exception and you won’t hear me lament, “oh my hair, what cruel strands have I been dealt....you’re sooo lucky you have wavy hair”. Although it could be a little thicker, I am, in fact,quite satisfied with my unremarkable straight hair.
This wasn’t always the case. Let’s dial back to a time when ‘classic rock’ wasn’t yet classic, it was just ‘rock’ and punk had yet to be invented. I’m reminded of a small window of time during that era when my straight Valerie Bertinelli hair was convinced it might look cooler with a perm.

"...My mom actually cried when she saw the hatchet job. Now you know how I feel, lady, I thought to myself..."

A Spiral Perm. This should be a perm to rival Peter Frampton’s. From the ‘Frampton Comes Alive’ live (duh) double album. I believe it was overuse of the Wah-Wah guitar pedal that actually made his hair come alive. As was the case with the hair condition of Jimi Hendrix, Jimmy Page and that guy from Metallica-- all Wah-Wah pedal aficionados. But, as usual class, I digress. Maybe it was a little earlier and Marc Bolan drilled it into my head with the line “I ain’t no square with my corkscrew hair” as he banged a gong. Would this imply that with my non-corkscrew hair I am a square? I want the “universe reclining in my hair” too. To the nearest hair saloon, I must texturize!

This would be my first time at a real beauty parlor. Up until then it was all, ‘Sit still, godammit!’ as my mom tried to square off my fringe year after painful year. The outcome always lopsided, it looked as if she had been cutting my hair on the Andrea Gail during a perfect storm. And then there was the time I did it myself when I was six and discovered scissors. My mom actually cried when she saw the hatchet job. Now you know how I feel, lady, I thought to myself.

Since my mother wasn’t up to speed on home perm kits (thankfully), I nervously settled my teen-age self into a salon chair-- not unlike being at a dentist appointment. In fact, some measure of anesthetic would have been comforting when the state of my freshly permed hair hit full force from the giant mirror in front of me, and behind and beside. After hunkering down for about two hours with tight rollers wedged into my head it was a foregone conclusion: I was a frightening surround of Robert Plant and Stevie Nicks’ love child multiplied ad infinitum. 

Not only that but I had to fork over six months of babysitting money for the privilege. I had heard about salon nightmares and now I had my own initiation. The saddest part is that I tried to convince myself that it was an okay look. But it wasn’t. My Bertinelli feather-winged bangs had morphed into a horizontal mopped Don Martin character from Mad Magazine, which was a fine tribute if that’s the look you were going for. I tried pulling a few fusilli strands straight and down into a considerably more natural gravitational position, only to let go and hear “boi-innggg” as they snapped back into place.

Classic Don Martin 

It was on the way home when the word ‘perm’ really sank in. Noooo, I thought with a sinking horror. But it’s true; perm is short for permanent. I’m going to look like this for the rest of my life! I darted into the house and into the sanctuary of my bedroom before my brother and his friends could feast their eyes on this moving target. Damn you 1970s classic rock icons! I shook my fist at the KISS army poster above my bed. I tore off my jean jacket (adorned with the Rolling Stones’ tongue logo I had painstakingly hand-stitched on the back) and reassessed the damage at my large vanity mirror. Sob.

My new hairdo happened to be all the more tragic because at this point in my life I had just started to ‘transition’. No, I wasn’t pre-op sex change. It was that all-important time in a young person’s life when they heed the call to transition from their Led Zep “Good Times, Bad Times” hard rock ways to the new “let’s see my hippie parents figure this shit out” cult of punk. So what was I thinking when I opted for a knock-off Wilson sisters (of Heart, not Wilson-Phillips) hair sculpture? I don’t know. Perhaps some mystical deep-rooted sense of loyalty to those days of yore took hold of me -- or maybe it was that after-school joint. I tried pulling a comb through it. Nope. The universe will most definitely not be reclining in my hair anytime soon. My ‘do’ would be rejecting whatever might come near it. I now have my own force field. This will not be terribly handy if I happen to attend the upcoming high school dance.

Sure, I could have shaved my head or sculpted a Mohawk. But Skoolers, I at least had the wherewithal to assess my face shape and I came to the conclusion that removing all my hair would render me rather moon-faced (not an alluring look), and just a tad too exposed for my environment. But why was I thinking in terms of extremes? Why not have the best of both worlds? No I was not going to entertain the mullet nor would I implement the ‘faux hawk’-- I’m just not that butch. I would have to be patient.
At every reasonable opportunity I trimmed the fringe and looked forward to the full recovery of my smooth bangs. I found a way to accept the waviness elsewhere on my head. I told myself that it would look rather Joey Ramonesque. It would be okay. I’d make sure to supplement with plenty of heavy liquid eyeliner. And slowly, like a caterpillar shedding its unbearable David Lee Roth wigged cocoon, I would emerge with my lovely limp locks free from the bondage of 1970’s freakytown. Yes, free at last from the ridicule of my brother and his friends telling me not to go near any more light sockets. Free from my dad telling me that the school janitor called and said he wants his mop back. And free from being mistaken for Twisted Sister’s younger sister.

Meanwhile, I looked up again at my KISS poster, “Why, Paul Stanley, why?” I implored. The room started to spin (which wasn’t unusual actually), Paul shifted his intense rock god gaze down to face me and imparted these words of wisdom: “Be yourself and follow your own look”. Wow. That’s heavy. “Oh, and by the way”, he added, “You’re soooo lucky you have naturally straight hair”.

Endless Pajama Party

 Linda in bed, shoes on, waiting for that call

by Mistress Justine Brown

Linda Evangelista and I have much in common. So very much. It's spooky. There's the Canadian thing, and well, all sorts of stuff. Anyway, most importantly, we both refuse to get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day. More with inflation; it's been a while since Linda drew our line in the sand. But since adequate offers have been a bit thin on the ground recently in my neck of the woods-- I swear there's something wrong with my phone-- Mistress Brown has been firmly planted in bed for quite a spell. As the days turn dark, you may feel the need to take up this position as well.

And there's nothing wrong with that! It's not a protest or anything, no sir. I love bed. From a wee girl I have made the hay my home-within-a-home. I sit at the centre of a shifting pile of books, papers, snacks, crafts (I'm into beading at the moment, which has led to quite a few Princess and the Pea moments), moisturisers and plenty of makeup. I have a hand mirror, and try out different looks from time to time.  Even now I am in bed, laptop perched upon my knees. If I have written anything worthy over the years, rest assured (ho ho) it has issued from this humble correspondent's bed.

Young Mistress Brown. Note silk pajamas and bed.

If I tell you that some of my happiest moments have happened between the sheets, will you promise not to smirk or waggle your eyebrows? Life is a perennial pajama party here in Milady's Boudoir. I'm thinking of pajama parties of yore now, proper ones where the pjs stay on and everyone engages in wholesome activities, like playing Monopoly, dyeing their spiky hair and painting their toenails. Cocktails are quaffed, but delicately, because no-one wants to wreck the party place.

pj parties of yore

Of course, stylish pajamas are the key to stylish pajama parties. When I became a punk, I was gratified by the prominence of pajamas among the denizens of that world. Attentive Skoolkids will recall that one of my best friends knocked 'em dead, ravishing the menfolk by staying fully clothed in the sack, shoes and all. She balanced this look off by wearing red paisley pajamas during the day. Sending boys to the store in their pjs became a crucial test: if they weren't willing to do that little thing for us, we wanted nothing more to do with them. I also remember fondly a trend among some guys for sporting silk kimonos over t-shirts and jeans for a languid daytime-into-evening look.

 Just add boy of your dreams

The Chinese have given us the world's best pajamas, those fitted satin ones with embroidery. I am wearing a pair as I write. Head down to your local Chinatown to find them, or, if for some excellent reason you are confined to your bed, simply order them off the net. Now that you are suitably attired, you may be in the mood to socialize. Rather than-- Heaven forfend--don't go getting crazy on me, now-- abandoning the boudoir, why not bring the party to you? Treat your friends in the run-up to Christmas. A lot of spas and salons are offering in-home services these days. Recently I discovered the existence of a fabulous den of femininity, Lost in Beauty (www.lostinbeauty.com), a lovely salon in London's deeply fashionable Primrose Hill, popular with the feted "Primrose Hill Set". How do I know it's lovely, you ask? I made an exception and went there in a fur-lined cab, all right? It was Hallowe'en, and I fit right in what with my glossy satin pjs and all. The makeup artists were cheerfully at work preparing their alluring customers for costume parties, so there were plenty of glammed-up goths and witches to admire. Lost in Beauty has a vintage look, sort of 1920s luxe, a full range of beauty services, and a selection of tempting products (like the inimitable Rose Day Cream from Dr. Hauschka, which I smooth on to comfort my complexion when I'm not bombarding it with tretinoin and alpha-hydroxy acids.)

With the proper decorations festooning your bed, tinsel streamers and the like, perhaps a yuletide scene on the headboard, you can easily stage your Christmas party from the comfort of that happy spot. Order in a team of these festive experts to pamper your nearest and dearest with pedicures, manicures, makeup, massage, threading; all sorts of things! Plus-- champagne. Yes. Just be ready to lay on breakfast; I don't think their packages include that.

I love a good pedicure. Since I'm not really into bedroom slippers, my feet need to look good all year round, really set off those pjs-- considering the circumstances. (You know, sticking to our bed-bound principles and all.) At the moment, nail polish colours are shall we say counterintuitive. For the last few seasons, Chanel has had the last word on nail colour. Last season it was "greige", a strange but strangely attractive (to women, at least) combo of gray and beige. Here in London it's a mob scene at the Chanel counter once the powers that style have discerned the colour of the season. A moment ago it was jade. Or eggplant. This is all very well, but the fact remains that men like red, and I concur. Red on the toes and something pale on the fingers, though for some reason I feel weird if both sets of my nails are done at the same time. At any rate, that's what some of my pals are getting for Christmas:  pedicures in my glorious bed. With their feel sort of dangling off to save the duvet.

If I send the cab for her, Linda-- you remember Linda-- will doubtless come round for the festivities. She may be busy these days, but surely not too busy to pay her respects to someone with high standards like herself. When she does, I'll walk to the bedroom door on tippy-toes with my Barbie feet, champagne glasses in hand, and invite her in for a night of pajama perfection and girly delights. I just hope we can sync up our calendars.

Subculture Afterlife: the Tango

 

by Mistress Justine Brown

If you, dear Reader, are anything like me, you spent your adolescence in louche nightclubs (or trying to gain entrance to them). You belonged to a thrilling subculture. The world revolved around music, and you collected records and mixed tapes fervently and danced with abandon. Bands and musicians generally occupied the pinnacle of an elaborately coded and mannered social world, the scene, one which was obscure to most people, people whose tastes you and your friends dismissed contemptuously as "mainstream." As you stalked down the street, studiously ignoring one and all, you examined telephone poles for posters which closely resembled kidnap notes: these let you know where you would be spending your Friday and Saturday nights.Your clothes-- mostly black-- hair, makeup and general deportment inspired passing members of the public to roll their eyes and insult you, sometimes yell, wave their fists and even issue threats. And more. Punk, goth, psychobilly, or something along those lines, you had a hell of a lot of fun.

The irresistible Robert Smith

Feeling nostalgic? If so, Mistress Brown has a prescription: take up Argentine tango. Tango has been enjoying an international revival since the early 1990s. A niggling difficulty with youth subculture is this: it's for youth. This doesn't mean you are forbidden to head out occasionally and see the latest local band or are banished from the Cure reunion gig. It doesn't mean you can't pull the blinds and drown yourself in Nick Cave murder ballads now and then. But do you really want to spend the rest of your days in the abject position of trying to recapture the feeling of being seventeen, and looking to teenagers (possibly-- ouch-- your own teenagers) for all the cues? Broaden your stylistic horizons and add some musical culture-- say jazz, blues, opera, or TANGO-- that ages well. As a flamboyant youngster, you may have relished the opportunity to dress like an undertaker, a vampire or a pirate. Once you enter the world of the tango, you can wear the best shoes in the world (the Comme Il Faut brand for instance makes Manolos look like Birkenstocks), sport your most dramatic dark clothing and makeup, flourish a fan, wave it, whisper behind it and generally behave like an eighteenth-century coquette. With impecunity.

What are those tangueras talking about behind their fluttering fans? I might as well tell you the worst up front. They're dissecting everyone else's dancing. If you can handle that, you can handle Argentine tango. The hierarchy-- and every subculture rests on some type of caste system-- is based on dancing. But since everybody was a beginner at some point, and a person never really finishes learning the tango, the playing field is reasonably level. In the world of tango, to say that a person dances like a 70-year-old is to pay a high compliment. Make the term "vintage" really stand for something! Devote your evenings to the melancholy pleasures of Argentine tango.

Once you do so, you will find yourself, oddly enough, frequenting some of the venues of yesteryear. Dance enthusiasts rent the same sorts of places-- the Latvian Friendship Centre, say, or an old dine-and-dance joint that's been languishing since 1974-- as punk rock bands used to do. There you can usually find a class or two, followed by a dance that seems part Weimar Berlin, part cartoon (remember when Bugs Bunny used to dress as a girl and go dancing?). No look, no gesture is too extravagant. Just make sure to wear leather or suede soles, otherwise you'll stick to the floor. Men, when dressing, use black as your basenote and work from there. Women! Raccoon eyes, oiled chignon, sequins, clingy gowns; do what you do best. Just make sure you can stride in it.

Betty Boop prepares to tango

Many of us rue the day that men and women stopped cutting a rug together. Tango affords a welcome respite from the lonely and robotic "individualism" of today's average dancefloor. Nothing is neutral in the tango world. There are leaders (mostly men) and followers (mostly women), but one quickly learns that there is nothing inherently passive in following. The first time I attended a milonga (a formal dance, as opposed to a practica), we were entertained by a pair of men in snazzy gray suits. Their excellent performance somehow fused the Marx Brothers with karate. The average tango couple aims at something more subtle, though-- a wordless conversation. People wax mystical about the tango connection at its best. Suffice to say it is intimate. However, this is not an intimacy that leads automatically to the bedroom. It usually stays on the dancefloor: the tango world is not a meat market.

That said, you may very well meet your heart's desire at the milonga. At the very least, you can star in your own movie. The striking cast of characters, ranging in age from 18 to 80, is laid on. So too is the ravishing soundtrack, featuring everything from Astor Piazzolla to the Gotan Project, and assorted points in between. (Sometimes there is live music as well).You are in charge of wardrobe. Need a few pointers? Here is an Argentine recipe. Put your hair up-- it gets hot in those places-- and powder your face as pale as you like. I favour a choice between dark, smoky eyes (check out Lauren Luke's eye makeup tutorials on YouTube, or go to http://www.bylaurenluke.com/looks.aspx%20) and crimson lipstick, but you may want both. A lady cannot go wrong with a black wraparound dress and a pair of shoes that look good and stay on. Add a little perfume and a big, sparkly cocktail ring on your left hand, all the better to dangle over your partner's shoulder. A bracelet looks good on the right wrist, near where the hands clasp. Indulge the love of black, white, a dash of red and lots more black; return to those dark little haunts, join the clique and above all get swept away in gorgeous music. You are ready for subculture afterlife--just like heaven.

Free Range Radicals

 article and illustrations by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol
 

Not so many years after Grade Eight Home Ec. class (or as I liked to call it, Skoolers, ‘Home Yech’ class) everything I learned about nutrition and a balanced diet went down the drain. Cooking was never on the front burner at my home-- that’s what drive-ins were for.  My dad schooled me in the efficacy of fast food outlets and we weren’t afraid to use them. We simply rotated the three major food groups: pizza, burgers and fried chicken-- all readily available for pick up.

I transferred these good eating habits into my very young adulthood. However, once out of the family home the frequency with which I patronized fine and fast eating establishments depended on the cash flow. The alternative to this method of sustenance was, of course, reliance on what may have been lingering in the kitchen. The nutritional and economic state of the average punk household was reflected in the contents of its fridge. Upon inspection one might find a crusty bottle of ketchup, a shriveled potato well past retirement and an ancient box of baking soda orphaned by the previous tenants.





This icebox inventory illustrates the factors that produce the punk rock pallor in all its empty nutrient splendor. As a result it was rare to see a rosy-cheeked punk and even harder to find a healthy glow. Sickly pale was the skin color du jour. We would never have darkened the doorway of a tanning salon; if we wanted more pigment in our skin, we opted for jaundice. We reflected the environment we lived in: up all night, sleep all day-- there was no sun-kissed look.

The emaciated and pasty Stiv Bators, antithesis of a Chippendale dancer, was a classic example of the punk prototype. Breakfast for Stiv consisted of a big bowl of steaming hot snarl-- most likely diet snarl. That guy was really skinny. If he were alive today he would probably market “Sonic Reducer” as a secret carb-burning supplement. I’d buy it.

Some of the classic punk rock food staples back in the day were basic items such as toast or beer or, if one was feeling rather flush, toast and beer-- good for any of the three squares. Then there is the legendary Kraft dinner. Only the imagination can limit the multitude of ways to bastardize this dish. I’m just glad tofu hadn’t been invented back then-- I would have hated for any nutritional value to have compromised my standards. Cereals were very popular in my kitchen, given the fact that I hosted breakfast for a boyfriend with the maturity level of a seven-year-old. Naturally, the cereal selections were based on sugar content and the prize inside. Words of wisdom, Skoolers: if you want to get rid of your punk rock boyfriend, stop feeding him Captain Crunch and he will go away. Guaranteed.

For me, Vancouver's legendary Railway Club served as an all-you-can-eat buffet, the bars garnish caddy being the buffet. With such delicacies as lemon and lime wedges, (no scurvy!), maraschino cherries, pearl onions and celery stalks (fruit and veg!) mealtime meant never having to settle for just a bag of chips. A lot of punks really didn’t eat much. If it was a choice between a half-sack of Extra Old Stock brew or food, then snacking on beer labels seemed to suffice. Simply tear and chew. Between the protein in the glue and the fiber content in the paper you are looking at an adequate amount of roughage with the beer rounding out the recommended daily nutrient intake, not to mention a dose of vitamin B6.

The ‘dine and dash’ was a fairly popular pastime and method of replenishment. But be sure not to overeat when undertaking this venture and go easy on the bread basket, as it can hinder the ‘dash’ part of the evening, leaving one rather vulnerable while attempting to exit. Greasy spoons were the typical eating establishments in punk culture and, in particular, Nemoto’s cafe just off Hastings Street was a breakfast favorite. My friend Sally and I would wile away the time waiting for the waiter to bring us our order by singing “You Can’t Hurry Jimmy” sung to the tune by the Supremes “You Can’t Hurry Love”. 

Another restaurant on the punk rock landscape was Mr. Mike’s. It was a low budget steak house franchise established in 1960. I was quite familiar with it, as it had been a family favorite. The only restaurant I remember patronizing as a kid where you could actually get a serrated steak knife! We went there when my parents were on their best behavior. I would amuse myself by studying that paper placemat with the fun and colorful illustrations of the various bar drinks. I learned their names, their contents and scrupulously mapped out what order I would one day try each of them...Harvey Wallbanger, Singapore Sling-- what funny names for cocktails. Come to think of it, ‘cocktail’ is a funny name for a drink. Tom Collins, Rob Roy, hmmm, it kind of makes Shirley Temple sound like a big baby’s drink. Hey, that Manhattan sounds cool... Those place mats were an invaluable education and helped me to appear quite drink savvy when I reached my teens. Never mind a diploma, I’ve got a framed comprehensive cocktail chart on parchment paper hanging in my den.

By the late 1970s, the Mr. Mike’s restaurants started to slowly disappear but there remained one on Granville Street where a large portion of punks managed to gain employment due to one hapless manager who thought putting people like Chuck Biscuits in charge of the salad bar was a good idea. A useless and long expired insider’s tip: if you must eat at that Mr. Mike’s location, stick with the baked potato with its insulated aluminum safety jacket. Unless, of course, you are craving a smorgasbord of human bodily fluids and feel the need to pay for them, then have at it.

Meanwhile, in terms of at-home gatherings, I don’t remember too many punks hosting dinner parties; most owned little more than a can opener for cooking equipment. That and a fork will get you on your way to Beefaroni bliss. Enjoyed hot or room temperature, it makes for a fine meal. Fruit and vegetables, which would have greatly aided in the appearance of health, were sorely missing from the punk diet. Did I miss the all-ages ‘Rock Against Produce’ concert? The only vegetable on that guest list was the potato. And so many punks subsisted on the spud that people starting speaking with Irish accents. 

Today it’s all about anti-oxidants and eradicating free radicals. I remember when being a free radical was hip; now they are the enemy. But really, back then we had bigger fish to fry, and when you’re young the last thing you are mulling over is if you are getting enough Omega 3-6-9. And screw protein. Muscles were for jocks. But over the years the palate matures and what was once a delectable indulgence, such as the sparkling strawberry Pop Tart, is now just a shell of its former self. That’s why I’ve switched to the irresistible raspberry flavored ones. I’ve come a long way in improving my healthy eating habits. I realize now that donuts aren’t just for breakfast anymore, pizza actually counts as not one but four food groups and chocolate milk tastes pretty good even without the vodka.

The Blue Peel Letters

Assorted approaches to aging skin: diversion, concealment... 

In spite of strict Skool rules against passing notes in class, SOMEONE has produced the following mysterious letters. They are signed only "A Lady."

Dear Miss X,

Few ladies, I think you will agree, enjoy the effects of time upon the complexion. I celebrated a milestone birthday recently. It so happened that my husband and I were staying in a fine hotel in the Far East-- Hong Kong, to be precise. The sun blazed through the picture windows, leaving me feeling mercilessly exposed. Catching sight of my reflection in the glass, I gave a start. The mirror in the powder room wasn't much kinder, although the light was soft. Horrors! It seemed that I had aged overnight. My face looked fatigued. I had fine lines, yes, but what troubled me more were the dark patches that seemed to shadow my face.

Over-exposure to the sun, you say? Those of us who follow Beauty Skool know your strict rules on sun exposure, Mistress Brown, and that you champion the white complexion of an eighteenth-century coquette. And yet I had, since a girl, shunned bronzing and had worn a sunscreen every day, no matter what the weather, for the last twenty years. What in heaven's name was going on?

This revelation cast a pall over the birthday celebrations my husband had thoughtfully prepared. I no longer felt at ease, in spite of his gallantries. The only thing solution was to procure a powerful sunscreen and concealer.  Fortunately, Hong Kong is not only a shopper's pleasure garden, it is also a place where ladies are particularly concerned with maintaining a luminous complexion free of dark spots. They make their way through the humid streets of the vertical city carrying parasols or-- less charming but equally practical-- ordinary umbrellas, and they buy "whitening" products (designed to erase the depredations of the sun) in vast quantities.

I took up my parasol and made my way through the steamy streets to market. Shiseido is a particular favourite among Hong Kong womanhood, as are luxury brands in general. Immense glowing billboards and magazine advertisements attest to this fact. After much consideration, I decided to buy Mac Prep + Prime Face Protect SPF 50 and some tried and true Maybelline Super Stay 24H Concealer to sustain me until we returned to London via Saudi Arabia-- another Eastern land where the ladies are mad for luxury goods-- and I could consult a dermatologist. I had resolved to make an investment, let us say, in my skin.

 














 The quest for beauty, Arabian style. Courtesy of Mattel.

Meanwhile, I adorned my face as best I could and enjoyed my birthday. With makeup I can make a tolerably attractive mask. These days, I have resorted to wielding concealer before my husband awakes. Oh! He stirs, and I must leave off my tale for the moment.

Cordially yours,

A Lady

We in the staff room were immediately reminded of a pleasing anecdote from the Beauty Skool Hall of Fame. A Vancouver scenester gal spent the night with a member of a celebrated English band in the early 1980s. After he had played at the Commodore Ballroom, they repaired to his hotel room. Now this gal liked her warpaint. We are not sure we would have recognized her without her white pancake makeup, sooty eyeshadow and liquid liner, and above all her brilliant red lipstick topped off, Helmut Newton style, with reflective gloss. She passed the night with this gentleman, and awoke early with a sense of unease: he was about to see her without her polished mask of pigments. So she quietly repaired to the powder room, reapplied it all to perfection, and slid back into his arms before he woke up. Triumph! Illusion intact.

Beekeeping fashion: another strategy for dealing with uncooperative skin  

Dear Miss X,

Upon our return to England, I found that the malady still haunted me. I was terribly self-conscious-- not only before my husband, but other people as well-- about the dark spots and enlarged pores upon my visage, and felt that some kind of rejuvenation was crucial. In the meantime, inspired by our visit to Arabia, I took up beekeeping as a hobby. My boon companion, Mrs. X, kindly suggested a trip to take the waters at Bath. Tempting as this was, I felt that something uniquely designed for skin was in order. I therefore made an appointment to visit the Harley Medical Group, a practice which specializes in plastic surgery, but also offers a host of "non-invasive" procedures.

My fellow sufferers in the doctor's waiting room affected not to notice my new costume, and in fact chatted with me aimiably on the subject of rejuvenation procedures. I met a family of three-- father, mother, and daughter of nineteen. It emerged that the young lady had recently undergone an operation to enlarge her bosom, and had come to have her stitches removed. So the gentleman confided to me when the ladies were closeted away with the surgeon. "A father doesn't notice such things," he stated. I must confess I was a little taken aback when the nurse summoned him to join them in the consulting room! However, I busied myself with pamphlets. I soon had my heart set upon something called the IPL Laser, which is supposed to banish uneven areas and effect an overall tightening.

"Madame X?" a young and fresh-faced nurse stood before me. "Would you care to follow me?" At the Harley Medical Group, the initial diagnosis is performed by a senior nurse. This nurse did not appear senior, but her manner was professional. She did not attempt to further erode my self-confidence, as some of these practitioners are reputed to do, by suggesting that I  might need a new nose, chin, or set of cheekbones. However, she did persuade me that the IPL Laser was unsuitable. Apparently, it sometimes has the effect, albeit rarely, of intensifying dark spots, and is best used for freshening the complexion. She suggested that I undergo what is known as an Obagi Blue Peel, declaring upon her honour that she had never known a patient to regret the procedure.

And now I must leave off for the moment. Duty calls: the bees are in need of my attention.

Cordially yours etc.,

A Lady

My dear Miss X,

Pour etre belle, il faut souffrir, as our wise French sisters are wont to declare. Beauty demands suffering. My bees seem seem intent upon teaching me this hard lesson. More to the point, my charming gentleman surgeon does also. Happily, he relies upon words for instruction. During my most recent visit to his offices, he explained the Obagi philosophy in detail and equipped me with a large box of ointments and unguents, together with directions printed upon a card. The products are designed to acclimatise the skin, to prepare it for a certain... harshness. He exacted a promise: that I would use no other products upon my skin until  the Blue Peel itself is performed in eight weeks' time-- an occasion known mysteriously as "Smurf Day." I gave him my word. Also, I vowed to use only mineral makeup-- insofar as I use cosmetics at all, as I told him (haha!), I now use only Laura Mercier's powdered primer and foundation. It appears that other cosmetics act as a barrier between the skin and Dr. Obagi's creams. 

Let it be known that many types of mineral makeup are available, but Miss Mercier's offerings are particularly pleasing-- they include crushed pearls among their ingredients!-- if a little expensive. Maybelline has a line of mineral cosmetics, and I myself own a pot of their Pure Mineral Blush in Pink Topaz along with the concealer I mentioned earlier (and which I am now forbidden to use). In fact, London ladies are quite smitten with Maybelline, which boasts a kind of exoticism in this city.

I was told to expect a certain amount of redness and spontaneous exfoliation, as though I had-- perish the thought!-- spent some hours in the sun without my parasol. And indeed, after a week or so, I did begin to experience some strange phenomena which caused me to reach for my fan and wave it energetically.

Distract onlookers and obtain relief from a certain burning sensation with this indispensable item

But I am ecstatic to report that after this same week the dark shadows which had caused me so much distress had vanished! Soon afterward, the unpleasant symptoms began to abate (however, the nurse tells me that week four is typically the least comfortable). My complexion is wonderfully even-toned for the first time in a year. I look forward to what the coming days will bring, and to further describing my experiences to you.

Your faithfully,

A Lady

Stay tuned, class! Skool rules notwithstanding, we await the next missive from our veiled correspondent.

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.