Primetime

Sometimes in life you find a game changer. Something that raises an inner smile, simply because, once adopted, you can’t imagine life without it.

In the mid-nineties the female population experienced a unanimous game changer with the advent of hair-straightens. Yes there were sketchy crimp-come-straighteners-come-hair-shapers before this point, but this was the time that decent irons became readily available and millions of women finally banished frizz for good.

Strangely enough I do not share the collective female joy in straighteners. Having poker straight hair (don’t think I’m being smug- I’m talking stubbornly lank), I’ve never needed them. But I understand their bewildered joy because this is the way I feel about primer.

Until a couple of years ago, most people, me included, had never heard of primer. Then, ever so slowly, it began to creep in, this awareness that foundation was not really the foundation at all, that there was another crucial step that somehow we had all been missing.

Now I can understand why some people might approach primer with skepticism. After all- the introduction of an essentially clear product to sit under your existing make-up does smack somewhat of the emperors new clothes. I probably wouldn’t have got into primer if it hadn’t been for my adoption of bare minerals, which heavily encourages it’d use. Nevertheless, since that first pump, I have not looked back.

You see primer creates a level playing field for your make-up. Start to think about it, and really it makes sense to do some land clearance before you begin to construct your face. It evens out skin texture, reducing the impact of visible pores and instead creating a luxurious smooth finish from which to go forth.

However, merely having discovered primer is not enough for me. I have now become obsessed with finding the primer- the one that that will provide me with a inner facial radiance, the smoothest complexion and a finish that lasts all day. See below for a run down of my exploits so far…

     1.     Bare minerals Prime Time Foundation Primer (£19)- As my first primer experience, this remains the yardstick against which all subsequent primers are measured. Call it first love syndrome, but this is still the best in my eyes- melting into your skin to create the lightest, yet softest textured finish.

     2.     GOSH Velvet Touch Foundation Primer (£12.99)- My least favourite.  Had a tendency to go grainy when cold. Not a quality you look for in a primer when living in a phenomenally under-heated flat. Some mid-winter mornings it was like pulping cotton wool into my face.

     3.     Maybelline The Smoother Skin Retexturising Primer (£9.99)– Better but still had grainy tendencies. I was also finishing the pot at the time I was experimenting with nail extensions, making it a routinely morning mission, and the work of numerous cotton-buds, to access the contents.

     4.     No. 7 Airbrush Away Primer (£19.50)- The great thing about No.7 is that you always have a £5 off voucher for it, bringing the rather dull products into the reasonable bracket. The bad thing about No.7 is that purchasing from the range will invariably lead to another £5 off voucher. And thus the cycle continues. Fantastic at evening out skin texture but also left it slightly dull.

     5.     L’Oreal Paris Lumi Magique Primer (£9.99)- And so this brings us to my current fling. Quite different texturally to it’s predecessors, more of a pearlescent cream than a gel. I bought it in the hope that in would solve my reoccurring problems with lack-luster skin.  When I told my flat mate that I’d bought a miraculous new primer with luminizing properties she was terribly excited, asking me when I planned to try it out. Needless to say it was already on.

So I suppose if this post has a moral, it’s this: Don’t bother messing about, head straight for the Pime Time.

The Problem with a Staycation

The English summer is the ultimate flirt. The week before last she was all over the place in all her winking, pouting, hair-tossing glory. Now she’s withdrawn, she’s not returning calls and there’re some malicious rumours about her on the Daily Mail website.


Now summer may have backtracked but I cannot. I have entered into a committed relationship with my summer wardrobe and I am not a slut. The thing is that summer skirts and white-T-shirts are best accessorised with glossy tanned legs- a persistent problem for the British population (me amongst them), more naturally inclined to goose flesh and pallor.


Now us Brits normally get round this problem by heading abroad. A good roasting in the med normally ensures that for at least two weeks of the year we can wear those pastel hot pants with pride, as despite the lashing rain and gale force winds, our skin retains some memory of mid-twenties heat.


Only my holiday this year is a staycation in Hackney. You may laugh but just over a week ago, as the sun beat down on Victoria Park, Mills (flat mate) and I glowed with smugness at our foresight and economy. With temperatures topping those in Ibiza I’d have the tan necessary to carry off those gold sandals with aplomb.


Unfortunately this was not to be and although I am gut wrenchingly disappointed at the unsettled conditions, I am not altogether unprepared. Past flings with the British summer have taught me to be resourceful and so, a little like the pensioners that hoard bread before a snowfall, I have stocked up with fake-tan.


And at least the money I have saved on exceeding my Ryanair baggage allowance means that I have purchased, with very minimal guilt, the grand dame of fake-tan- St. Tropez.


Yes at £20.43, it is a little pricier than Rimmel wash-off but it’s good. There are a number of varieties; sprays, lotions and mousses, available in natural and darker tones. Wanting to avoid looking like an extra from Gypsey Weddings, I opted for the lighter variety of mousse. This is feather light, quick drying and thankfully makes you appear instantly browner. This is opposed to some varieties that mature, taking you from delicately bronzed to wallowed-in-the-Thames over the course of a day.


Consequently I managed my first dalliance with St. Tropez with relative success. Apart from a few streaks on my back, which washed off with the first shower, I have achieved an even, golden glow, promised to last at least three days before a top-up application is needed.


As with most products there are a few drawbacks- not so much flaws as things to watch out for. Although not overpoweringly scented, there is still a whiff of the biscuit about it. This has to be endured for at least four hours basting time before your first shower. During this time you may also appear slightly streaky but worry not at these evaporate along with the digestive cravings.


Altogether this is a rave review. A fantastic product that, if not the antidote, at least treats the symptoms of our great British summer. 

Report: From the depths of my make-up bag

There’s a moment in my day that I look forward to. It comes at roughly 11 o’clock when Emerald Street, the daily e-mail from the team behind Stylist, plops into my inbox. It’s a virtual mid-morning snack- I anticipate its arrival and promptly gobble it down.

One instalment this week was on make-up bags. Now these have never excited me. My mum goes wild for a ‘pretty’ make-up bag and for some unfathomable reason my Grandma presents me with one every Christmas. It is a tradition I would happily opt out of as I now have a whole stash of them in assorted floral prints- reminding me of the £20 notes that could have been.

I have one chosen make-up bag and it is to this that my mind wandered. I began to think of it rather fondly – I realised I’d had it since I was nineteen, that it had been round the world with me and seen me through numerous nights out…

My thoughts turned to its contents and I experienced a gradual, dawning disgust.  Some of the items in there were as old/ well travelled as the bags itself. I blushed with guilt, resolved to rectify the problem and returned to my press list.

I went home that night and gingerly unzipped the bag. Digging through the contents was like a visitation from the ghost of make-up past. Some of the items were hideously out of date- and I’m not just talking sell-by date. There was a horrific double-ended eye-shadow wand in two shades of equally lurid metallic green and a two-tone blusher that was almost as bad. I traced them back to circa age 15 when I obviously decided that one bad colour just wasn’t enough.

I sat back on my heels, exhausted by my obligatory trip down memory lane. Embarrassed as I was, a small part of me refused to believe I was alone in my hoarding tendencies. I braced myself and sent out an office text. Yes text- it needed urgent addressing.

The response I got back was not only a relief but was also fascinating. Everyone had items in their make-up bag at least as old as mine. Lucy cheered me up no end when she declared that she had a blusher brush older than her son… her son is 15. She also fessed up to owning an ancient eye-shadow palette given to her by a drag queen.

The moral of this story is clear. This week, when the torrential rain makes leaving the house problematic, use the time to clean out your make-up bag. You will never use that crumbling bronzer and that lilac eye shadow makes you look like you’ve been punched. It’s bad enough that your nineties make-up has been immortalised in photographs, you do not need to hold hostage the offending glitter-gloss. 

Nailed

Sometimes in life there are things that you just can’t do. I have a whole host of Achilles’ heels which cause me varying degrees of embarrassment on a day-to-day basis. I have never been able to master the rules of 21, carry a tune or reach things on high shelves (the latter can seriously influence a supermarket shop).


Nevertheless, perhaps the flaw that I find most irritating is my inability to varnish nails. I just can’t do it. Nail-varnish goes everywhere- all over my cuticles, my fingers tips- I’ve sat back and realised I’ve varnished in strands of my own hair.


Over time I’ve become so disheartened that I’ve given up trying. When quizzed on the subject, I respond that I don’t want to draw attention to my sausage fingers. Coincidentally, this is not a complete lie. For a small person, I have abnormally pudgy hands (something akin to a bunch of chipolatas), but if I had the capacity to spruce them up with some nifty nail art, I certainly would.


My own ineptitude also has one, rather unpleasant side effect. Nail envy. This has stepped up a gear since joining my new job, where my colleague, Steph, sports an immaculate manicure at all times.  Over the past month, I have watched her nails progress through the colour spectrum whilst trying to keep mine as inconspicuous as possible (no mean feat when a large portion of your time is supposedly spent typing).


The last straw came on Thursday with the arrival of the latest Wordville recruit, Pema- and more precisely- Pema’s nails. Beautifully sleek, superbly shaped and subtly coloured. The green-eyed monster in me made an immediate assent to the surface. Thankfully, before I could direct her to the men’s toilets/ slip salt in her tea/ miss-assign names to the whole floor, she confided that they were in fact gel and therefore could be achieved by any old mortal.  Hurrah!


Now I’ve heard of nail extensions before (I have not lived under a rock), but I always associated them with slightly chavy celebs and suspected that the cast of TOWIE had some kind of monopoly on them. Here they were however subtle, elegant… Could this be the end of sausage fingers Pol?


This morning, in a slightly hung-over state and on a limited budget (as always) I took myself down to the Kingsland shopping centre. Granted, it’s not the most salubrious location, but I spent a very happy hour and a half being, filed, stuck, clipped, filed, buffed, filed again (I think you get the picture-it’s a lengthy process), by the rather wonderful Beate.


I consider the finished result to be nothing short of miraculous. No more are my nails shamefully stubby but long, shapely and polished in a fantastic shade of metallic Chanel (Pérodot 531).  Best of all, they make a fantastically efficient clicking noise as I type. Enjoyable for me but maybe less fun for the rest of the office.*

 *Appendix

Since writing this post my enthusiasm for my new nails has been slightly dented by their impracticality. Difficulties with zips, poppers, buttons and bra hooks all make dressing a lengthy process (I’m setting my alarm early tomorrow). Blackberry action is also such a kafuffle that I’m considering revising my opinion of text speak. Lol. 

It's no bum deal...

I have a new beauty Guru. A sourdough-munching, zinc-popping, herbal-swilling lady-of-a-certain-age with a strangely youthful complexion. Mrs M is a friend of my mum and since moving I have become a regular at her North London home. We have entered into a comfortable routine whereby I walk through her door, she plies me with a large “fat-girls G&T” (“None of your slim-line bollocks”), then introduces me to her latest beauty finds.


The other day I was making one of my habitual visits when she greeted me with particular glee.

“Waitrose Bottom Butter!” She announced.

Now I’ve known Mrs M for a long time; coincidently there was a period in my early years when she was the only person I’d let wipe my bottom; but I had no desire to enter into a conversation on derrière maintenance with her.


Thankfully my psychological well-being was spared, as she went on to explain how applying said lotion to your face achieved a softness and smoothness comparable to that of the proverbial baby’s rear. She also extolled the virtues of the price, which coming in at £2.89 per 100ml tub, makes this product no bum deal (sorry I couldn’t help myself)!


Unwilling to take even the word of my trusted guardian as sacred, bedtime came and I dipped into the pot, liberally smearing the unctuous lotion all over my face…


IT WORKED!!! Waking the next morning I was pleasantly surprised by the buttery smooth texture of my skin. Although naturally greasy areas (nose, T-zone etc.) are probably best avoided, there is no doubting the moisturising power of this virtuously chemical free potion.

A little research revealed that Mrs M is not the first to champion Bottom Butter. Since 2008 it has had quite the following, with some particularly zealous converts making favorable comparisons between the Waitrose own brand product and Crème de la mer (£970)! One day perhaps I will have the funds to test out this particular claim but until then, there will be a lot of babies running about with very dry bottoms.