Posts Tagged ‘pah’
E: Why are you shouting at me to go faster?
M: Keep up, E. “Veet” is international sign language for “your upper lip is hairy, bitch”.
E: Aha. Is there a hand gesture to go with that?
M: Yes. It’s one where you hold the skin taut and pull FAST.
E: OUCH. Being bald is such an advantage at times like this.
M: I know, this is what us hairy people have to deal with. Did I tell you about my chin hair?
E: This is karmic retribution for you laughing at my attempts to fake tan.
M: Yes. Karma. Well, let me tell you, the karma has a new formula.
E: Oh? Tell me more, oh hairy one.
M: It is pleasingly pink, which is apparently what girls like.
E: What’s pink? the actual wax?
M: Yes. But why? Do men wax their moustaches? No, didn’t think so, Veet-formerly-known-as-Immac.
E: Poirot waxed his moustache. But he waxed it to a curly point, rather than waxing it off.
M: Pfff, wusses. The thing is, the Veet strips are really good. They take everything off, fast. Shamefully, however, they invariably leave tiny little bits of wax around the edges. Tiny little bits of wax that are IMPOSSIBLE to take off.
E: A waxstache. What do you do about that?
M: I have tried everything. The ridiculous oil-soaked tiny square of crap that comes in the box.
M: I’ve tried cleansing oil. Soap. Olive oil. AVOCADO oil. Even butter for goodness’ sake.
E: Have you tried sticking a wick in them and burning them off?
M: Hmm, ok, I haven’t tried to burn it off.
E: I don’t think you should try that at home, facegoopers. Health and Safety announcement.
M: What is in this wax? Superglue?
E: Yes. Or … fox poo? That is also impossible to remove.
M: Oh god. Well it’s like that. Fox poo. But pink. And it gives you spots.
E: Eeew. I could have sworn we were saying Veet was good at the start of this. But with this fox poo pink wax, I am not so sure.
M: I KNOW! It’s rubbish. Damn you, Veet. Damn you to hell.
E: What other ‘tache options are there?
M: Dunno. I’ve been tweezing them by hand, which is a bit like what’s his name in the greek stables.
E: Erm. Theseus? A minotaur? Zeus? A hydra? Ok, you’ve reached the limits of my greek mythology there.
M: That’s all I have to say on the subject really.
E: So: Veet. It’s crap. Right?
E: I am laughing. That was a really stupid post.
M: Totally crap. A bit like the product.
Veet mini face strips, £5.19
How do you deal with a furry upper lip, readers?
M: So, E. Someone was asking about that Vichy Cellu-Destock the Easter Bunny brought you.
E: Hmmm. It was shite. SHITE.
M: Oh dear. In what way?
E: Not only did it have no discernible effect, it didn’t even make me BELIEVE it was having an effect.
M: Was it nice to put on?
E: No, it sat on the surface of my bumpy skin like snail goo, mocking me. It’s just green snail slime.
M: And we all know how that goes. One minute you’re putting snail goo on your legs, the next you “accidentally” break the jar.
E: See, I liked the previous Vichy cellulite nonsense cream. But this one? PAH. Maybe my legs have just become more resistant in the last year?
M: Probably. Or maybe the Vichy people are tarnishing their good name (splutter) with inferior products. See what I did there? Historical joke. You don’t get those on your proper regular beauty blog.
E: Yup. It’s the Maréchal Pétain of creams. Without the moustache.
M: In a nice friendly rebranded green tube. So, did it “accidentally” find its way into the bin then?
E: Nah. It’s still in the cupboard, but it fills me with indifference. I won’t be doing lunges in skimpy black pants any time soon.
M: I notice she has no neck in that picture. You don’t have neck cellulite, do you?
E: No! I don’t think so. I don’t know. Argh! Now you’re making me paranoid. I think I have chin cellulite.
M: Ha. There’s no such thing, you nutjob.
E: Well if there was, I wouldn’t be putting Vichy Cellu-Destock on mine.
E: It’s time for Facegoop to stage our first intervention, M.
M: Yes. And it’s directed at Lush. Listen up, LUSH, you hemp clad bimbo.
E: Noone wants to tell you this because they are too polite BUT YOU STINK. YOU STINK STINK STINK.
M: YOU STINK TO HIGH HEAVEN. What the hell are you anyway? A flower shop? A perfumery for grannies? Some dodgy prostitute’s underpants??? MMMMMM????
E: It’s for children and hippies, M. Ones who think they are too good for the Body Shop.
M: Yes. Hippies. Hippie tramps. Who would like to think they could make their own cosmetics, but are just too fucking lazy to do it.
E: IN OUR DAY WE HAD THE BODY SHOP AND LIKED IT. Have you ever tried one of their “bath bombs”, M?
M: Bath bomb. What the fuck is that. Why would I want a bomb in my bath.
E: It’s like, this giant ball of super smelly Lush crap that you put in the ball it fizzes like a Berocca and your bath goes scummy, artifically smelling and SLIMY.
M: Wow. That’s great. If I wanted scum, I’d go bathe in cow water.
E: But it’s fun! It fizzes! we use KERAZY fonts on our products!
M: You know what else I hate, Lush? The stupid names you give your products
E: Like what?
M: “Devils on horsebacks”. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?? That’s a victorian breakfast dish.
E: What? They are PRUNES IN BACON aren’t they? WTF lush. Leave the lameass jokes to Bliss.
M: I DO NOT WANT TO SCRUB MY FACE IN PRUNES, LUSH.
E: You know what Lush is, M?
M: Do tell.
E: It’s POI. FOR GIRLS.
M: OH GOD. YES. Poi. The most hippie-like of all activities. Pointless. Pitiful. CRAP.
E: Whirl a couple of bath bombs in socks around and you have guaranteed M and I’s hatred forever. Ugh, I am getting an allergic reaction just thinking about Lush. My eyes are watering and my throat is closing up.
M: I’m sneezing. And wheezing a little bit. And also feeling the rage. UGH. Just the WORD “Lush” makes me want to retch. You are like someone else’s crazy grandmother, Lush. One who thinks she could still get frisky. And who likes to feel her boobs up AT YOU.
E: LUSH: YOU’RE A TOXIC GRANDMOTHER. If you were our granny, we’d put you in a home and never visit.
M: Yes. We’d pretend we didn’t know you.
E: “No, I don’t know why she’s shouting my name. Poor old dear, she’s obviously lost her wits”.
M: We’d hire a nice normal grandmother to pretend to be you. Like, maybe, Estee Lauder.
E: Yeah. Estee Lauder’s our nan now. Not you.
M: Get out of my sight, Lush.
E: And take those balls in socks with you.
Do you love Lush? Stand up for your granny in the comments. Or share the hate with us. Go on. You’ll feel better instantly.
It’s summer, when people wear floral playsuits with no sense of irony and when Facegoop’s fancy turns to .. ice cream. And where there’s ice cream, there are wobbly thighs. So for the next few weeks we’ll be bringing you an epic follow up to the Water Diaries, the Cellulite Diaries. Be afraid, be very afraid.
Cellulite. I haz it. I have had it ever since I stopped doing 5 hours of ballet a week and started to eat Nachos for breakfast. I am plagued by terrible circulation, a strong desire for tasty salted pork parts, and a deep rooted hatred of exercise. I have recently instituted a daily ice cream break in my studio for the summer months. This has led me to:
The Vital Statistics:
Thigh circumference: 25. 5 inches.
Calf circumference : 17.5 inches.
Number of ridiculous lotions tried: too many to recall.
Number of ridiculous lotions that were unpleasantly sticky: all of them.
Number of giant bruises from cycling: 7
Amount of cellulite dislodged: non-existent.
Low. Looking at the statistics above, I realize just one of my thighs is the same size as other people’s WAISTS. Not even freaky people’s waists. Just, people.
I know my legs will not be replaced by ones worthy of an antelope overnight, or, indeed, ever. In fact a doctor recently told me I was bow-legged, which left a nice happy song in my heart. Thanks, doc.
I’d just like to be able to wear an above-the-knee skirt in the sweltering heat of Paris this summer. DO YOU HEAR ME, CELLULITE GODS??? IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?
Body brushing: E has talked me into this. She says it works if you do it obsessively, so I have, like an obedient, distraught puppy, started brushing myself every morning before my shower. It makes me feel rather like a pony being given his daily cleanse, minus the strong pony odour. Oddly comforting. And what do you know? It works. My skin is much softer, and possibly even stronger. Win.
Weleda Birch Cellulite Oil. It’s delightfully warming and the legologist says it works. It is backed up by some impressive and wonderfully germanic statistics. After 28 days, visible improvement of skin structure in 85% of cases, 20-25% increase in microcirculation, and a measurable thigh loss of 3.95 cms. This is getting slathered onto the drumsticks every evening, and my legs feel light, refreshed and hydrated afterwards. The boyfriend says I smell of ginger. Whatevs. The Oil is here to stay.
The Bicycle. My two wheeled love. I cycle every day but usually only for relatively short trips. I am going to make the most of the long, light, balmy (cough cough) Scottish summer and increase the number of 30 minute trips. Oh yes I am. Yes I am yes I am yes I AM.
Phew, that was tiring. Pass me an ice cream, E?
M and I bonded early on over our love of cellulite snake oil, pants with outlandish shrinking claims, spiked rollers to squish our thighs into submission. I love all that stuff. I’ve had hatchet faced Breton women pummel my thighs with a power hose, been wrapped in all manner of gloop, spent ages wobbling on a Power Plate.
No more. Now I have cellulite AND I’m poor. I don’t know if I’ll have to wear a swimming costume in the Isle of Wight in August, but I fear there’s a strong possibility, and my thighs are‚ well. They’ve seen better days. I try not to look. I’m typing this eating salted caramel chocolate which tells you everything you need to know about my diet. My only exercise is walking the dog, and when I say ‘walking’, I mean ‘sitting on a bench while the dog unearths old kebabs and condoms in the park’.
The vital statistics
Thigh circumference: 22 inches
(I’m not measuring my calves because I know there’s no way in hell I’ll be putting cellulite potions on them. They’re fine. They’re, you know, calf sized) .
Number of potions tried: Infinity plus
Number of bruises from drunken incidents: loads. Not sure. At least 5 big ones.
Amount of cellulite dislodged: At the moment I’m operating at a net gain of cellulite of 12 cm3 per annum.
The rot must stop.
Since I won’t be exercising or eating less, I don’t really have any expectations, but if I can get my thighs a little smoother and less, uh, GROSS, that would be great. If I can replace my body and face with those of Christy Turlington, so much the better.
Trusty cheapo body brush - it’s easy, it feels like it’s doing something, and skin definitely feels softer after use.
Weleda Birch Cellulite Oil – M was impressed so I bought some. And what’s good enough for the Legologist is definitely good enough for me. I worship that woman. I have only used a couple of times. It’s, well, oily, but there’s a sort of tightening sensation that seems promising.
For the rest, well. I’ll try and drink some water and eat some vegetables. Can’t say fairer than that.
So here goes nothing: Cellulite Plan 2010 is go. It can’t be as bad as The Water Diaries, right?
Weleda Birch Cellulite Oil, £12.10
Vintage Falcon bicycle as pictured above in gratuitous bike porn pic, get your hands off my bike, bitch.
E: I am worried, M. Facegoop is full of joy and happiness and product love at the moment. This is not representative of us.
M: Do not worry, E. I am going to rant about Liz Earle sunscreen now. For I am ANGRY.
E: Oh good.
M: I’m going to keep this short. I got a sample of this Liz Earle suncream squidged into a pot at John Lewis. It has all the good stuff: SPF 20, physical sunblock, no dodgy ingredients, lactic acid, pleasant orange flower smell. So far, so good, if you make allowances for its guano-like appearance:
E: Indeed. I wonder where this is going?
M: Well, this morning I put it on my face.
E: That is the suggested usage.
M: It was like coating your face in melted resin. It just sat there. Like a coating of STICKY DUSTY CRAP.
E: Gross. Liz Earle???? What were you thinking?
M: Making my face grey. And STICKY. Did I mention the sticky??
E: I think you did. So it made your face like an old lollipop abandoned down the sofa.
M: Exactly. But GREY. I waited a good 15 minutes, and then, rather idiotically, decided to try and put on mineral foundation. Not my finest moment.
M: I looked like I’d just rolled my face in some finely milled porridge oats.
E: Making you into a healthy, if perhaps slightly high GI snack.
M: SO. I went to wash the whole dirty mess off. EXCEPT THE FUCKER WOULDN’T COME OFF. IT JUST SAT THERE.
E: This is like a cosmetic nightmare.
M: YES! LIKE A NIGHTMARISH MILKY SNAKE. COILING ITSELF AROUND MY FACE. TIGHTER AND TIGHTER. Or, as my boyfriend has just suggested, like that thing in Aliens, jumping out of the pot and affixing itself onto my breathing hole. I had to oil cleanse TWICE to get the wretched stuff off.
E: I am giving myself wrinkles just thinking about this.
M: And you know what the crazy thing is?
M: This is supposed to be the new and improved version. I mean, WTF.
E: Christ, what must the original be like? Rubbing floor polish on your face?
M: WHATEVER. Liz Earle, I am done with you. I did not like your Hot Cloth Cleanser, and I do not like this, this… this CREAM OF THE DEVIL.
E: Ooze of Satan.
M: SATANIC PUS.
E: I feel much better now. Thanks, M.
We are not linking to this. If you want to buy this crap, google it yourself.