I’ve just got back from a friend’s beauty party. One of those ones where some over-enthused woman is blatantly thinking she’d rather be at home watching Eastenders with her third glass of wine but needs to sell her wares to afford her mortgage. And the party “host” is hoping her friends take pity on the situation and buy as much as possible so she can cream in the freebies.
Despite knowing this quite basic sales exchange, I am completely sucked into the entire “holistic” thing. I am not someone who dreads these invites or makes an excuse, I love this shit. I love the mini little pretend pedicures you get, and the ability to try out products that cost more than your monthly outgoings.
The soothing candles they light, the way they make you think “isn’t this nice, see you could do this in your own home, it’s so easy”. I am a moth to that candle’s flame.
But you don’t recreate these moments of spa-bliss in your house. You continue to still sit on your sofa of sloth every evening with the crusty make-up you’ve been wearing all day and will not be taking off until your morning shower. And for me, taking off is basically the water from said morning shower washing my face. My regular facials are when my skin cells deplete. Occasionally, very occasionally I sand blast my face to help the process.
However, I’m there, with nibbles and girly gossip and being told we have to get our feet out and shove them into washing up bowls of water we all do rather sheepishly under the guise of jokey comments because quite frankly whose feet are nice? But actually mine really are quite vile.
And then we’re in, committed to the process of our beauty night and the woman’s banter. This one is good. She knows her shit. She’s already buttered me up by saying she does lots of different treatments, reiki, massage, therapy, she’s effectively Mother Teresa living and working in my town. Wow. I trust her and listen to her patter.
Frankincense is basically the “king” – who knew? It does EVERYTHING apparently. It balances hormones and is good for girlstuff, and PMT and insanely good for anti-aging and do you know how hard it is to even extract a drop from trees in Africa? Jesssssus this is miracle land we’re in. And and AND the VICAR’S WIFE SAID SHE DEFINITELY HAD FEWER WRINKLES AFTER USING THE HYDRATING CREAM. The vicar’s wife, I mean this shit is endorsed by God. And I’m an atheist. But I’m there, putting the code on my form despite the cream being ranging from £25-£55 a jar.
The previous night’s discussion with Mr Mother Fudger and I saying we had to “cut back and spend less on shopping” means nothing to me now.
I would like to say I stopped at one product but there is a beauty serum that guarantees skin renewal over night. OVER NIGHT. I cannot afford not to buy this stuff. Invest in pensions…smensions. I need to invest in me.
When I got home I confessed to Mr MF:
ME: “Did you know just to get mere drops of Frankincense it is insanely laborious yet it is basically magic stuff?” (I once found out at one of these parties bat crap is used in pretty much all mascaras!)
MR MF: “Did you have fun then?”
ME: “Yeah and I treated myself?”
MR MF: “How much did you spend (chuckling slightly)?”
ME: “Errrrrrrrrrrrm, I ordered this cream and I needed some moisturiser so it’s all OK?”
MR MF: “Was it more than 30p? Because basically any moisturiser is a big tub of sheep fat with other crap thrown in?”
ME: “Ermm, it was a bit more than 30p?”
MR MF: “How much more?”
ME: “Try another £24.70 more.”
MR MR: (He laughed).
Thank f*** it’s Friday and he has a new job.