Thursday, October 23, 2014

Renee or Changing Faces.

So here's the thing: the braying mob have their poxy potatoes gathered up in their hessian aprons and are hurling them with all the vigour of the ladies' choir spotting a strumpet creeping out of the local  minister's bedchamber. 
Now... we can't slut shame anymore, we can't fat shame,  but yet we can rip a woman's appearance to shreds if God forbid, cross thyselves, cosmetic enhancement is suspected.
I sniff a double standard, but I wonder why? 

Yes,  of course we can dig  down deep to that  existential argument which says our face reflects  our life's  journey, our true soul.
But I don't accept that, as our  protean faces change naturally as we age anyway, none of us will keep the face we're born with; osteoblasts and osteoclasts  are the architects  behind the fleshy arras,  my 21 year old visage no longer resembles my 50 year old one, bone reabsorption has given me a smaller jaw, my nose has lengthened and my upper lip has retracted, our faces are not cast in stone but in malleable material.
Nature vs. surgeon,  both will leave their thumbprint, I refuse to think less of anyone who chooses the latter.
I wonder if we are just hardwired to  berate other women, is it part of that old evolutionary desperation to vie with each other?
 I wholeheartedly  believe in a woman's right to choose,  whether that be  abortion, botox or  a facelift, I think we do our sex a disfavour by placing limits on their expected behaviour. 
We are legion and contain multitudes. 
On the one hand we aim to respect a woman's right to do as she chooses. We try not to judge what she puts in her mouth but we find it harder to resist a jibe about what she puts in her face. When women change how they look, their neighbours have always gossiped over the fence or in the washhouse but now, thanks to the internet, we see what everyone does and we feel obliged to pipe up.

I'm not saying we should pipe down necessarily, she is, after all, a public figure who is recognised, or was recognisable, and it wouldn't be natural to pretend that nothing has changed but in this new age of social media how do we rediscover our manners? 

Sunday, October 19, 2014

What Your Winter Coat says About You

1. The Cape: Holy vestments cool girl, look at you in your KAPOW ensemble, oh you thought you were going for the lady of the manor look? No, everyone is looking at you and  thinking urban crime fighter. 

2 The Poncho: The Man With No Name stole your heart at  thirteen and has yet to give it back, take a puff on that cheroot for me.

3 The Parka: Shackleton chic, make sure you eat before your vertiginous High St expedition , we don’t want another case of ‘tastes like chicken” cannibalism on our hands.

4 The Camel Hair: You Patrician snob, shaving sheep isn’t enough for you, it gives you the hump, you demand  that the finest ships of the desert dock for your fashion edification.

5  The Duffle: Don’t cry or get your toggles in a twist, but I’m afraid  Paddington wasn’t real. 

6. The Cocoon: Only for the willowy, these voluminous carapaces will make mere mortals look like cobras who have just chowed down a pig.

7 The  Double Breasted: Oh look at you with your au courant minimal  embonpoint, your evening look is Le Smoking slashed to the waist, you are peaking in this season’s hottest look -  vertical cleavage 
Laura Bailey in Shrimps - all the rage at the moment here.

8. Faux Fur: You may spark when you walk unless you are suitably grounded by rubber soled boots but at least know no one can ever call you Cruella.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Wolf Whistle.

MaxMara and Hermes melange.Coat: here Jumping Boots (brown) : here 

No wonder the law of contemporary  etiquette states to older women: cover thy knees, thy gnarly crone. (my dress isn't that short, it had ridden up) Stunned by my snub nosed patella, I said to my other half, that's utterly  hideous, take another one: 

Which  made me realise that the sweet bird  of youth has well and truly flown the coop. 
After scoffing my pretzel and bemoaning my lost pulchritude, 
I walked out of Pret only to see a   newly blonde  Naomi Wolf  walking along  the street, yes that Naomi Wolf,  feminist, academic and  author of some of my favourite books, The Beauty Myth and  Vagina: a  new biography. I went from startled Hallowe'en cat to rampant fan girl in less than ten seconds and headed off like a greyhound out of  a trap in hot pursuit of her, all whilst having this inner dialogue with myself, "What are you going to say? Is this daft? No on you go,  just do it.  What if she thinks you're  a stalker? You utter fool, stop this now." When I finally caught up  with her after crying, "Miss Wolf" across Buchanan St, she was quite quite lovely and very chatty, charm personified, even though my eyes were as wide as saucers and I looked as if I had just snorted Ketamine.  I was dying to ask if I could take her photograph but I didn't want to be too intrusive, she was over  here to talk at a pro Independence rally in George Square. There's nothing like a brush with  literary stardom to illuminate a dull Sunday afternoon.