Posts Tagged ‘seal blubber’
E: Goop morning, M. We’ve been a bit lame recently again, haven’t we?
M: Goop morning E. Yes, we have, but a lot has happened since last we spoke. Things like: me moving back to the UK. Also: winter hitting me in the face.
E: Brrrrrr. You’d forgotten about that hadn’t you? The sleet, the icy puddles. The hail.
M: Yes. I was all “YAY! COLD!”
“I get to not have sweaty boobs any more”
“I get to see my breast mist in the cold morning air”
E: Breast mist? I think ur doin’ winter wrong.
M: Ssssssh. I mean breath.
E: If you say so. So: The Shock. He is Rude.
M: Yeah. My face. She is dry. And what did you suggest when I asked you for a moisturiser recommendation, mmmm, E?
E: I told you that I didn’t have a fucking clue, I believe. Is that right?
M: That is correct. You suggested FUCK ALL.
E: Yes, that sounds likely. I’ve been using some old chip pan fat and a dead seal, myself.
M: So I had to drag my sorry, shivering carcass to Boots. The winter wonderland of Boots.
E: Ah, sweet, sweet Boots and its five pound voucher off Ruby and Millie. I bet you missed Boots, eh?
M: Yeah, I did. Boots is marvellous. I kissed its shiny shiny floor. I kissed its balding security guards. I kissed its be-coated Clinique sales assistants. And when I had kissed everyone, I also got this moisturizer: FAB Daily Face Cream
M: FAB, I’m sorry to say, stands for “First Aid Beauty”
E: Hmm. It sounds like a 1970s ice lolly and it looks .. retro. And a little medical.
M: I can’t quite get over how lame the name is. I am tempted to go over the bottle with a black marker.
E: There is some seriously bad copy on that website. I don’t think “to scavenger” is a verb. In fact, I KNOW it isn’t.
M: No, no it isn’t. Do you know what free radicals are, E?
E: Hmmmmm I *think* they’re a bit like bad bacteria. The ones from Actimel adverts, chasing the glow off your face, like evil, tiny Mr Men.
M: Oh? To me they’re freegans who organise riots near the Sorbonne.
E: Ah. White dreads. Birkenstocks.
M: No. Repetto ballerinas.
E: Fucking French, stylish even in protest. I am tempted to assume ‘free radicals’ are bollocks, But whatevs. Your FAB can trap them if it likes.
M: It’s really a shame about the packaging and lame name and terrible copy, because FAB is, I hate to say it, fab.
E: Really? What is FAB about it?
M: It’s very moisturising, as tested against the harsh Scottish wind. It leaves my skin soft and firm, but not oily. It does not give me angry monkey face – no bumps, no redness, no spots, no nothing. In fact, I can honestly say my adult skin has NEVER looked this good. I keep on passing the mirror and marvelling at it.
E: This is astonishingly good for such a lame ass named product. If someone asks you why you look so good, say Botox, yeah? Not ‘FAB’.
M: Deal. It has all this stuff in it.
BARRIER PROTECTION: Ceramides
MOISTURIZE & PLUMP: Glycerin
SOFTEN & SMOOTHE: Squalane
COMBAT FREE RADICALS: FAB Antioxidant Booster
… FAB Antioxidant Booster. That sounds like an item on Batman’s belt.
E: Holy free radicals, Batman. “Smoothe” is not a word. Also, what in the name of Pokemon is Squalane, M?
M: Is it crushed whale? Well, maybe squeezed whale. Like, if you milked a whale (I have no idea).
E: (I guessed. Let’s ask Dr Wikipedia). Apparently it comes from “a variety of plant and animal sources”. It’s a component of human sebum, apparently. Wow, appealing.
M: I don’t care about the squalane sebum. Because I love this. It is witchcraft. And it is only £15.
E: Fine. It’s a win. It can’t speak English, but it’s a Facegoop FAB win.
M: *Cringe*
FAB First Aid Beauty Daily Face Cream, £15
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M: E, We have another problem for the Ask Facegoop Agony Clinic. Reader T.Twisted (which is an awesome name), has asked us a question.
Hello Facegoop, I prostrate myself at the feet of your glorious wisdom. Please, please, please help me find a light moisturiser, preferably oil-free, that has an SPF in it. I don’t wear foundation and my current moisturiser (Liz Earle Skin Repair Light) does not have sun protection. I will be eternally grateful for any suggestions!
Glorious wisdom. We need to live up to this, E.
E: Oil free? what does that mean?
M: It means it must have no oil in it. Some beauty experts we are. Oil. You know. The stuff you get out of fruits and what not when you squeeze them. Like, avocado oil. Sesame oil. Mineral oil. SEAL OIL.
E: Squeezed out of .. what? Seal is not a fruit.
M: Chilean miners. LET US MOVE ON. FORGET ABOUT THE OIL.
E: Sorry.
M: STOP FIXATING ABOUT THE OIL.
E: OK.
M: There’s nothing wrong with a bit of oil, anyway.
E: I thought we weren’t talking about it any more.
M: So, I would like to put forward my new Becca Luminous Skin Colour.
E: Is that a moisturiser, then? It doesn’t SOUND like moisturiser.
M: It is a very very very lightweight foundation that feels like a cloud. No, a marshmallow. NO! a cloudy marshmallow.
E: A cloudy marshmallow. Right. So, the lady wants moisturiser and you’re offering her cloudy marshmallows??
M: It’s super hydrating, makes your face glow in a non sweaty way, and you can’t feel it on. AND it has SPF25.
E: Oooh. Fancy.
M: And it’s Australian, innit. They know about sunscreen. And koalas.
E: That is true. Also beer.
M: It’s very moisturising. It has all sorts of vitamins in it, like a smoothie.
E: Well then. It sounds lovely. Are you sure it’s oil free?
M: You’re just cranky because you’ve run out of seal blubber. No, it’s not oil free. But I’ve been using it all week and it’s not broken me out. And everything, but everything breaks me out. Looking at my own face breaks me out. Anyway, what do you suggest, cranky pants? Won’t you just tell the nice lady what you’re using to shield yourself from the big yellow orb in the sky?
E: I like Daywear. It’s nice and green. It smells like something good for you. It has SPFS And it’s not made of marshmallows or miners. But what do I know? Now I want your Australian miracle cream made from wombat poo.
M: Daywear, huh?
E: Yes, Estee Lauder the demon grandmother’s Daywear. She’s your mean gran, the one you didn’t ever want to visit. She’ll tell you you’ve put on weight and that green doesn’t suit you. But she really doesn’t want you to get wrinkles.
M: She’s all about the caring, granny. Is it like, a housecoat in a tube?
E: That’s exactly what it is. Well done M. It’s a housecoat in a tube.
M: The cosmetic equivalent of a housecoat and a set of curlers. In a tube.
E: So, T Twisted. The choice is yours. Wombat approved marshmallow clouds?Or a housecoat in a tube? NO, NO NEED TO THANK US.
Any other recommendations, facegoopists?
Becca Luminous Skin Colour with SPF 25, £33.01
Estee Lauder Daywear Plus Base with SPF30, £30
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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.
M
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.
The expectations:
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?
The weapons:
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?
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.
The expectations
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.
The weapons
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.
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E: Goop morning, M. Today is an exciting day for science!
M: Uh oh. I’ll go fetch my lab coat.
E: Please do, there may be splashes. Get your safety goggles too.
M: Ok, go on then.
E: Well. You may recall that I was conducting an important scientific experiment for Facegoop.
M: What were you doing again? Eating slugs? Slugs coated in Coenzyme Q10?
E: Nope. No slugs, no snails, no product eating. Though now you mention it, I should have tasted them. I have been derelict in my duties. No matter.
You will recall that I was comparing Gel de la Mer, made out of unfeasibly expensive cashmere jellyfishes and £5 L’Oréal supermarket moisturiser.
M: On two halves of your face. Like Two-face from Batman. But CRAZY.
E: Precisely. So. I kept the experiment up for a week, with only minimal left/right confusion.
M: And by minimal, you mean drunken.
E: Ssssssh. Then, because I am all about the science, I decided to ask random members of the public (well, ones I know) to guess which side was which.
M: Interesting. I’m sure there is a scientific name for this observation methodology.
E: You may be right. What might it be? Randomised double blind control testing?
M: “Uncontrolled and unreliable”. But do go on.
E: Well. The results were SHOCKING. Do you have your goggles on?
M: If you want.
E: Every single person (about, er, eight) I asked CORRECTLY IDENTIFIED THE GEL DE LA MER SIDE.
“This side looks much better” said my friend Tara “it’s visibly different”.
“You pointed at the right side when you said Crème de la Mer” said my friend Tamara. We will gloss over that.
M: What did she mean by visibly?
E: Fresher. Plumper. More baby seal-like.
M: Furry? Vulnerable? A little bit too demanding?
E: Probably, with a huge liquid eye. Yes.
M: Well let’s see some photographical evidence, Two-Face.
E: Erm. I have some photos but I don’t think you can actually see the difference on them. However, you can see an amusing photo of me with a line down the middle of my face and another where I am holding a small cut out of Gordon Brown on the losing side, and, mysteriously, a small cut out of Kirsten Davies on the winning side. I hope that is helpful to our readers.
M: WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN, E??
E: I fear, M, it may mean that Gel de la Mer is better than £5 moisturiser. This is not the result I hoped for. Bugger; I am going to have to become a sex worker to pay for Gel de la Mer now, aren’t I?
M: What do you mean, become? A hardi har har.
E: Oh, very good. Hardiharharharhar. Truthfully, I thought the Gel side was a little plumper and less craggy. But is it significant enough for me to want to pay ££££££££ for it? I doubt it.
M: How long will the pot last you? Have you been putting it on your whole face?
E: Yes, since the Shocking Trial Results, I have taken to using it all over my face.The pot will last quite a while. You only need a teeny bit or else it gives you spots.
M: Ha. They should put that in the brochure.
E: So in conclusion, I am saddened to announce that Gel de la Mer outperforms £5 L’Oréal moisturizer. Sorry, everyone.
M: God damn you, Crème de la Mer.
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Oooh, spring. 12% sartorial disaster, 24% hayfever paranoia, 64% the light, the blinding light.
Here are the steals on M’s beauty wish list for Spring 2010.
1. C Through the Dry Spell Deliciously Rich Body Butter £6.99
M: I have chronic moisturising deficiency syndrome. Zero discipline and a box full of half empty creams I never use. I usually walk around obliviously with crackly, itchy, flaky crocodile skin. And yet I must have this, because someone on the interweb said it made their skin plump and dewy and they couldn’t stop touching themselves after using it. I want to be that body butter perv. I NEED to be that body butter perv.
E: Plump and dewy. That makes you sound like a seal. I would check the smell before you buy, because it might actually be blubber. A seductive blend of carrots and blubber. However I have also heard good things about the Yes To Carrots. So I say Yes to the Yes to the Carrots. Or something.
2. A haircut £50 or whatever the demon spawn are charging these days
M: I have long, thick, unruly hair that tries to smother me in my sleep. I also hate going to the hairdresser’s. They are a vicious, manipulative, extortionist breed with a deep rooted hatred of curly hair. It’s probably been about a year since my last torture session haircut, which means I now look like an 8 year old hippy. I had high hopes of getting my hair cut this Easter in Singapore, where I once had the most awesome dry cut ever from a hairdresser who barely spoke a word of English, but the trip’s been cancelled. Bollocks.
E: Haircuts. Believe me, it’s a heap more scary when your hair lives on a stand in the bathroom and DOES NOT GROW BACK. I love my hairdresser (John Vial at Real Hair , considerably more than £50 but worth it for the gossip alone), but even he is fallible, and I have been surreptitiously trimming the last one with the kitchen scissors for weeks to get rid of the slightly mullety effect at the back. I actually love going to the hairdressers. You get magazines and hot beverages and scurrilous gossip. M, what kind of person can only cope with getting their haircut in SINGAPORE? You are a weirdo. Get a fucking haircut. The end.
3. Garnier Cafeine Anti-dark Circles 2-in-1 roll on £9.99
M: For my birthday last year, E. gave me a lovely Chanel Précision eyroller thingy that is wonderful for depuffing and refreshing eyes after a long session of obsessive compulsive stats checking on the computers. This version has concealer mixed in. Yay.
E: I am also in thrall to the roller. Mine is YSL Somethingorother. It is cool and lovely and lives, mysteriously, on the bathroom floor. We will speak of it at some point. All hail to the rollers.
4. Mavala nail polish in Macao £3.95
M: My sister the actress slash model wears this, so naturally I covet it like any self respecting younger sister would: with seething bitterness and bile. It’s a pretty shade of pinky red that will look lovely and polished on summer skin.
E: Ha! Summer skin. Are you ‘avin a larf, M? I don’t even know what that is. Does it look good with blue? Bluey grey? Morgue tones? No? Ok, you keep it.
5. Chinatown glossy pencil £19.50
M: I am pretty rubbish at applying makeup (50% clumsiness, 50% can’t be bothered), and find fat pencils much easier to cope with. This is a sheer, glossy, moisturising version of my favourite Nars velvet matte lip pencil. I want one of each. Apart from the purple one. That one can go away. It’s not wanted here.
E: The names are wrong. The purple one should definitely be called Crime. Lip Crime. Apart from that I approve. Go ahead.
6. Urban decay eyeshadow primer potion £11.50
M: There’s a small, hidden bathroom on the third floor of my workplace that gets a huge amount of natural daylight. It has this tiny mirror that never fails, in the glorious afternoon sun, to make me gasp at the sight of my oily, crêpy, smudged, pockmarked face. The interweb confirms this potion is good at “creating smooth lids that are super powered eyeshadow magnets”. The interweb is always right.
E: Oh man, that sounds exactly like the Toilet of Truth at my workplace. I have to shut my eyes when I go in there to avoid the crushing evidence of my mortality and chins, which has occasionally caused awkwardness. “Super-powered eyeshadow magnets”. Please get this M and we can test it. I will hold pots of eyeshadow 30cm from your eyes, and we will test just how magnetic they actually are. But only for a laugh, because I don’t believe in it. Not for a second. Does it have wheat protein and ions and nanoparticles? No. Well then. It can’t possibly work.
7. Nars Cruising lipstick £17
M: ‘Mr’ ‘Nars’, guapito, I have better things to do with my time than to lust after your pretty nude lipstick. No? Oh. Fine. Gimme one. And I’ll take one of those Alhambra eye duos while I’m at it. NOW LEAVE ME ALONE.
E: Get me one too before you go. However, Cruising? Really? Dude, call it ‘anonymous shag behind a tree’ and have done with it.
8. Remington i-LIGHT Hair Removal Unit, rrp £299.99
M: This terrifies and fascinates me in equal measure. Not exactly cheap, but it uses lasers and space pixies to remove your leg hair for up to 12 weeks. I’m pretty sure I would give up on this after about 15 minutes, but I still want it.
E: Another sci-fi choice from M. Space laser pixies. That’s got to sting, no? I am putting on my smug, hairless face here. For £300 you should have beautiful Brazilian ladyboys stroking your leg hair off, not a small eletrical appliance.
9. Guerlain Midnight secret £58.00
M: The midnight secret is that I may have accidentally surreptitiously stolen some of this from E’s bathroom when I visited her last month, but you have no proof against me. Apart from the glowy translucence of my cheeks. It’s amazing and a full review will be posted here soon.
E: It is amazing. It smells good. It makes you feel like Audrey Hepburn. I have to resist using it every night. I mean, I function with a permanent sleep debt due to taking my laptop to bed with me every night. That’s exactly what Guerlain had in mind, right? Not parties and shit. Right? RIGHT? Sob.
10. Barefaced beauty mineral foundation £12
M: Still on the lookout for a weightless foundation that won’t break me out, I continue to be slowly brainwashed by all the mineral foundation love out there. I don’t really want to try the Laura Mercier because she is out to get me. Barefaced Beauty’s powder has just four ingredients in it, no evil bismuth oxychloride , and a carefully thought out colour range. I ordered samples of this recently, but the bastard postman still hasn’t delivered them. Where’s my magic powder, postman? HUH?
E: The postman is wearing your powder. Look closely the next time you see him and check his face. Poreless, flawless? He’s got your Barefaced Beauty.
What cheap tat are you buying this Spring?
Dry baby seal photo by
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