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.

A Pale Tale of Southern Gothic

 
Outstanding Beauty Skool exchange student ready for the sun

 
"You look pale."
Why thank you.
"You look mighty pale."
You flatterer, you.
"You're as white as a ghost."
Careful-- you're making me blush.
"Well, you could use a little colour."
I'll just pop on my favourite pink sweater.
"You look like you're about to faint."
Will the compliments never stop? 

"You should get some sun."

WHOA! What the heck-- that came straight out of left field! One minute they're showering Miss Brown with compliments, the next, they're trying to destroy her skin. Clearly, people have forgotten the tale of gothic horror that lies behind this bloodless complexion.


Miss Brown has long been drawn to the music, literature and landscape of the Deep South. This may be an inherited trait, for her father settled in Shreveport, Louisiana, in the 1980s. He drove down there with his country band, met a wonderful woman, and stayed. Miss Brown's first trip to Shreveport at age 16 coincided happily with the "cowpunk" trend: suddenly punk rockers aplenty were trading in their skinny ties for bolos and their Doc Martens for cowboy boots. Miss Brown had a white pair, and favoured fringed suede jackets and coonskin hats. 

The fur hat never made it out of her suitcase, however, for upon arriving in Louisiana she got a blast of the fiery, sweaty reality that is the Deep South in August. The house was well air-conditioned, so Miss Brown spent the month hanging upside down in the batcave of her room, nose in a book. And so the South of her dreams-- a jumble of swamp moss, mouldering and abandoned plantations, honky-tonks and residents haunted by nameless regrets--remained firmly imaginary.

A 19th Century poster depicting the folkloric Bell Witch

On the last day of her vacation, they brought out the wide-brimmed hat and bundled her into a camper van. The plane was leaving from Texas, so the Brown clan spent a the day on a lake somewhere between Austin and Dallas-- a cool, inviting lake which promised respite from the furious heat. Or so it seemed. Miss Brown spent hours in that lake, splashing around 'till the sun went down.


As the night wore on, Miss Brown was troubled by a mounting sense of impending doom.  Her legs were burning; her shoulders were frying. Her face was sizzling. In the dawn light, she picked up a mirror. HORRORS! Some kind of red-faced swamp thing had stolen her face. Its forehead was riddled with sores. Its swollen eyes glinted miserably. Miss Brown now knew for the first time what kind of havoc the sun could wreak. The one saving grace in this frightening tale: long, dense bangs to conceal the face. Reader, whatever your age, never underestimate the power of bangs in an emergency.


The aftermath was ugly; avert your eyes. It wouldn't do to tell you about, for example, the water blisters, or how the burnt skin shed itself in bits. Miss Brown was pretty sure she had done herself permanent damage. Eventually, though, the Swamp Creature receded and Miss Brown's face reappeared more or less intact. 

Soon after that, it so happened that the beauty experts began emphasizing the importance of sunscreen--we are even told that sun protection can reverse, not merely prevent, sun damage.The still-traumatized Miss Brown jumped on the bandwagon and tried to grab the reins from the driver. To this day she seldom tires of button-holing people and holding forth on the dangers of tanning. She can't say enough about the importance of wearing sunscreen every day of the year.  

Nowadays, virtually every day cream on the market comes complete with it, but Neutrogena was one of the first companies to come out with an effective cream for everyday use. Choose a moisturizer with a minimum of SPF 15, such as Olay Complete Care Daily UV Fluid. Add a hat whenever possible. A parasol. Or a roof. In summertime, ratchet the UV factor up to 30 or more (Olay has a good, though pricey, one in its anti-aging Pro-X line.) And consider using a physical barrier, such as titanium oxide, as your sunscreen.




the parasol: desert island beauty basic
 

Miss Brown returned to Shreveport in winter, and this time she ventured out often and encountered the captivating Deep South for real. More recently she went down to New Orleans, perhaps the ultimate Southern Gothic city and one that deserves its very own post. As for her skin, Miss Brown often opines that the punk rock/goth look saved her skin at a time when tanning was considered healthy and beyond glamorous. But in the wee hours, the phantom voices of killjoy dermatologists who say that even one serious sunburn can put us at risk for all sorts of nastiness further down the line echo round Miss Brown's chamber. Will the Swamp Creature rematerialize in some ghastly new form? Watch this space...







 

Skool Holidays

Greetings, Skoolgoers! Beauty Skool is on a mid-term break. Exams are coming up soon, so please review the material so far. See you soon...

The Foundation Course

Who is that masked Skoolgirl? Outlaw teen showcases the ideal foundation.

by Miss Justine Brown (photo by Sandra Prehara)

It's tempting to spend our Skooltime on extracurricular activities. We have the Foreign Affairs Club, the Pep Club, the Bee-Keeper's Club and so on. After Miss Brown's last post, London Hair Trends Redux, someone started up yet another group-- the Topiary Club. This club attracted half the Skool. We see them all over the halls, garden shears at the ready. Fellow Skoolgoers, we can sometimes spread ourselves too thin; we have to think of our grades! That's why Miss Brown is offering a special guest lecture for the Foundation Course.

Now, Miss Brown doesn't want to take anything away from our fantastic teacher-- what's that? No, she is not a "teacher's pet"! She feels a special affinity for Foundation, that's all. For what is foundation, if not paint? And Miss Brown does like her paint.

Some lunatics contend that we don't need foundation. Miss Brown says this: not only do we need foundation, we need PRIMER. No, just settle down and listen up. And you can STOP rolling apples down the aisle, Miss Green! For your information, Miss Brown has plenty of "street cred." Yes! She has even been caught shoplifting. Twice-- once at age six, and once at age thirteen. What's the point of this shocking revelation, you ask? Read on.

At age six, little Miss Brown was passing a candy shop on her way home from school. Naturally enough, she went in. She didn't have any money. And because she had neither money nor candy, she stole a bit of both: a single gold foil chocolate coin. The shopkeeper tried to pry it from her hand, but she would not give way. She did give up her telephone number, however, and he contented himself with phoning Miss Brown's mother.

At six, few things are more enticing than chocolate coins. At thirteen, few things are more alluring than makeup. Miss Brown was keeping company with a fellow thirteen year-old-- let's call her Mandy-- and they together they fell briefly into a life of crime, getting light-fingered in the makeup aisle at the local pharmacy. Disaster struck when  Miss Brown's cohort got collared by the store detective. Miss Brown got away with her treasure, but not without first whispering a piece of terrible advice to her friend-- don't let them make you cry. And precisely because Mandy did not cry and show remorse, the store detective phoned the police. Whoops. Sorry, Mandy.

Miss Brown got away with her swag because she stole with cool determination. What was it? FOUNDATION. Foundation, that miraculous paint that seemed to magick away her nascent teenage skin problems. The following week, Miss Brown's crime spree skidded to a halt when she was caught shoplifting makeup in, of all places, Army and Navy. Fellow Canadians will know this place. It's big and cheap, full of practical gear, and most often frequented by lumberjacks and fishermen just down from the bush to buy a new set of hobnailed boots or woolen longjohns. It's also flooded with florescent lights and studded with security cameras. 

Miss Brown didn't care. She was giddy with stealing success. She even remembers noting the store detective tapping an impatient toe beside her as she scrabbled on her knees through a bin of cut-price makeup, pocketing random stuff that she didn't even want. Soon she found herself in the cramped, frightening office upstairs. Luckily for Miss Brown, her mother alerted a dear family friend who also happened to be a lawyer. He dashed into a phone booth and emerged in a flawlessly tailored suit, turned up at Army and Navy in a jiffy, and smoothly persuaded the store detective to release the young felon into his care. It was scary and embarrassing. And so ended Miss Brown's life of crime.

The point of this sordid story is this: young Miss Brown stole foundation and got away with it because foundation was important. She later got caught (and just as well) because she got sloppy. She didn't need or want those random pots of disco glitter and bronzer in the bin. 

Today, foundation remains a crucial part of her makeup routine. Then, it helped to camouflage spots and (provided one could find the right product in those olden days) whiten the skin. Nowadays, it evens out skin tone and texture and provides a canvas for additions like blush, highlighter and powder. Miss Brown will recommend her two current favorites, a cheap, wintry one and a pricey, summery one: Maybelline Dream Creamy Foundation and Bobbi Brown Oil-Free Even Finish Foundation SPF 15. But first, a few words in favour of primer. Now, some of you think primer is just another plot launched by the military-cosmetic industry to get you to shell out big bucks for something you don't need. In that case, try an inexpensive but excellent brand of primer-- Avon Magix, which can be worn alone with just a little concealer. Worn like that, it creates a soft-focus effect and smooths the surface of the skin.

Class, Miss Brown prefers to go whole hog: apply primer because it makes the paint stay on all day, then a little concealer where needed. Finally, without creating an inch-thick mask, she dots foundation on her forehead and chin, strokes a little down her nose and cheeks, and, using a foundation brush as all painting students should, she stipples from the nose outward. Blend, blend, blend. Inspect at close range. You are ready to add whatever colours you desire! And so ends this student's contribution to The Foundation Course. Thank you.

Luv Song

article and illustrations by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

Things aren’t always what they seem. When the lights are low in a nightclub the magic comes to life. Smoke and mirrors present a world of fantastical images and the Luv-A-Fair was that mythical land. It was the “new wave” club where most hard-core punks would not be caught dead. The air was infused with the heart-pumping mascot drug of the dance floor: poppers. And as the drinks flowed the Look of Love looked increasingly better as the night wore on. But if you have ever been in that club before the magic starts or at the end of the night when the lights come back on, that enchantment has long caught a cab with its new best friend: illusion. You know what I’m taking about. Let’s face it, the majority of people look better in the dark and for the rest good lighting is everything.

The Smilin’ Buddha, punk’s premier destination, on the other hand, had no chance of even attempting to be anything more than it was-- a narrow little beer-soaked pub. It was a rock bottom ‘warehouse’ with rock bottom prices. However, it did carry one claim to fame: Jimi Hendrix once played there. (At least that’s what my parents would boast). That room held as much mystique as its doorman Igor was debonair. Still, it was an exciting dive, our dive; the only club in town that would consistently allow punk bands to perform.

I couldn’t help myself and in the late 1970s to early ‘80s I would traverse the two worlds --sometimes racing from the Buddha to the Luv-A-Fair towards closing or vice versa depending on that night’s talent line-up. These hot spots were Vancouver’s answer to CBGB and Studio 54, respectively. Despite the fact that Poly Styrene was belting out “I am a poseur and I don’t care” on the PA, patrons of the Buddha considered being labeled a poseur a challenge to a duel. In the Luv-A-Fair they were vying to make a career out of it, or at least to get a free drink. People made it a point to look fabulous and fashionable -- they really put in the effort. Giant speakers sat against the walls and doubled as gogo dancing platforms beckoning, “Hey, you just spent 35 bucks on your new black vinyl Le Château pants, jump on up here and showcase those fuckers!” And they would. 

Many club-goers were art school students, aspiring models, designers, hair stylists and make up artists. The hair was big and flawless. I’m sure that Flock of Seagulls dude had backed a truck full of Dippity Do into the loading dock and showed everyone how to use it. 
 

Mike Score of Flock of Seagulls flew the hair standard high.
Before becoming a pop singer, he cut the stuff for a living.

Meanwhile many of our Buddha counterparts (aspiring or practicing anarchists), were busy using toothpaste, beer, Jello, egg whites and even the very bad choice of glue to achieve serious spikiness. 

Usually we frequented the Luv-A-Fair during the week. Saturday was considered “Squares Night Out” but it also offered the most opportunities in terms of ‘acquiring’ drinks. People would abandon fresh bottles of beer while they hit the dance floor. I felt less remorseful if it happened during a lame song, anything by Split Enz or Haircut 100. (Notice their names are really all about hair?) Fair game, I’d say. However, towards the end of the night my pals and I would get sloppy and disregard the telltale sign of a room temperature beer bottle that offered the special sunken treasure of a cigarette butt or two. Touché. Life’s a gamble. I did not, however, play those odds at the Buddha.

Luv-A-Fair scene-makers took their dance moves very seriously and had their own signature steps, i.e. the iconic “Dan Schnell”, who owned Duran Duran’s Planet Earth, or maybe it owned him. Many affected an expression of ennui while working a cool, slow moving twist or Ska type of swing that communicated something to the effect of, “Oh this dancing thing? It’s so pedestrian, but really what else is there to do except go home and cut...” I considered myself a bit of a bon vivant and would bop in a lively fashion to even the darkest tune. Enola Gay? Bombs away! Love Will Tear Us Apart? I gotta go cut a rug! Fade to Grey? Well, okay! Give me some space, people! Bela Lugosi may be dead, but not me. 

Sharing the dance floor was a little different at the Buddha. The strategy was to actually stay somewhat vertical. Sometimes a playful push to release a heavy Dayton boot from my foot was necessary, other times a little shove to navigate a beer bottle from slamming into the side of my head made for a more coherent evening. There was nothing malicious about the mosh pit, just exuberant sloppy fun-loving kids bouncing around. No one had a true set dance style but when things got rockin’ the ear to shoulder side headshake manifested (which allowed for some great hair resuscitation). Change sides as needed. 

One of the most enjoyable parts of my night was the preparatory stage of hair and make-up. Our primer was of the alcohol variety. However, applying one’s make up sober is, of course, paramount to a successful night of looking good. Touching up one’s make up while slightly tipsy is touch and go. And retouching whilst plastered is just a cry for celibacy. 

Inspired by some of the masters and mistresses of illusion at the Luv-A-Fair I tried my hand at a few beauty aesthetics. I was excited about the idea of having glamorous nails -- those would really accentuate my dance moves. Enter the Lee Press-On Nails kit. Always classy. I was extremely pleased with my way too long smart pink nails even though they prevented me from putting my hands in my pockets; it meant sacrificing a favorite pose. It’s important to decide if your night is going to involve snapping your fingers along to any of those thunderclap and whip cracking enhanced tunes like Master and Servant or Whip it Good. If the answer is yes, the wearer must ensure not to form too strong a relationship with those prosthetic nails. Eighty percent will abandon your fingertips and only about ten percent will be returned to you, usually with the comment “your fucking nail landed in my drink, bitch”.

Another beauty embellishment that backfired was my Mod false eyelashes. (They went extremely well with my Mod white gogo boots). They stayed in place almost till the end of Tainted Love. It was a remix, extended version, so really, that’s a good chunk of time. At the end of the song my pal informed me that I had a caterpillar walking across my eye. When I got upstairs to the girls’ loo I saw Malcolm McDowell circa Clockwork Orange staring menacingly back at me.

What a Kick In the Eye; I realized then I would have made a shitty drag queen. There is a definite art to the magic of self-transformation. I started to understand that I had to work within my limitations. Sure, I can paint my face and tease my hair adequately enough; still, I was never going to achieve anything near the perfection of those glam Luv-A-Fair kids. They had mastered the elusive skill of illusion. They emerged from the darkness while the music and strobe lights were in full swing and the clever ones vanished into the night before the end of Love Song. 

The Luv-A-Fair ended on February 1st, 2003.