This is the first in a new feature: Ask Facegoop. Send us your questions and we will mock them. Nah, we’ll answer them if we can. Maybe.
First up, Expectant Mum says:
“I need help. I am three months pregnant and would like to know your recommendations for preventing (or trying to prevent) those ghastly stretch marks”.
I asked M to join me but she refused, saying “I don’t have much to say about pregnancy stretch marks”. Well. That’s FINE because I do.
Dear Expectant Mother,
Congratulations! You have so much to look forward to! Childbirth, which is of course a carnival of unicorns and kittens and rose petals, aging ten years in the first three months of your baby’s life, those delightful post natal sweats as you expel all the water you have been retaining for six months, and much much more. Stretchmarks? Pah! We can deal with those. We are MOTHERS. MUTHAS, even. RAAAAAWR.
Here is E’s patented stretchmark prevention scheme:
1. Have a small baby. Ensure the father is small. Ideally tiny. A jockey would be perfect.
2. Have your baby early. I was fine up until around 39 weeks. Unfortunately both my babies went 2 weeks overdue and I could actually see the stretchmarks forming, minute by minute, hour by hour as I stood in front of the mirror screaming “COME OUT DAMN YOU!”. Perhaps you could be a celebrity and book in for a planned Caesarian at 36 weeks, ensuring a cutely tiny baby AND time to fit in that all important tummy tuck?
Full disclosure here, Goopers. After 2 nine pound babies emerged from my small, if lardy frame, I did have a tummy tuck. It was horrifically painful and expensive, but totally worth it, because an umbilical hernia is just not showbiz. However I still have stretch marks. Life’s a bitch. I wear one piece swimsuits. Actually, who am I kidding? I don’t wear swimsuits at all, I lurk on the beach in a Demis Roussos kaftan pretending I’m allergic to salt water.
3. As for products, well. I used that Clarins Tonic Oil, so you can disregard any good effects of that. Useless. Other people swear by Bio Oil. But you know what I think? It’s genetics. Pure genetics. I’ll be crossing my fingers for you. Shall I tell you what does work though? Perineal massage. Too much information? Yes, I thought so, but being able to sit down without the assistance of an inflatable doughnut is a price worth paying.
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?
E: Must we? Why would we do that? We are a high class beauty blog.
M: Yes, we must. There have been too many pretty things on here lately.
E: So you thought you’d lower the tone. Good.
M: We need to get sweaty.
E: I can’t do games, Miss. I forgot my gym kit. AND I’ve got my period. Again. For the third week running.
M: It’s ok, there’s no sport involved. Today, I would like to discuss the Dove Hair Minimising anti-perspirant deodorant.
E: Hair minimising??? Really????
M: I’m glad you ask, because that is exactly what it says on the back of the roll-on. “With continued use, your underarms look and feel hair free for longer”
E: This is like black magic, in a deodorant.I don’t know whether to be impressed or burn it at the stake
M: Remember how one of our commenters was outraged by the claim that women feel sexier with hair free underarms?
E: Yup. There was a percentage as well. A high one.
M: Well, I am one of those women. And, I am hairy.
M’s portrait of her hairy armpit. Do not ask why she does not have a nose.
E: You one of the 78%.
M: Nature has set me up, ONCE AGAIN.
E: Thanks, Nature, you asshole. E: No hair. M: Too much hair.
M: Merci mille fois, Nature, you two-faced bully. You give with one hand, and you give a wedgie with the other.
E: You are very lyrical on this subject. Tell me more .
M: So I had high hopes for this deodorant. And, well. It deodorizes.
E: One would hope it manages that.
M: But does it keep you hair free? Does it hell. I am just as hairy as I ever was. And I have been using it for what, a year? Because I bought them on a BOGOF. So I have a lifetime’s supply of said deodorant.
E: You have given it a fair trial. It did sound like colossal bullshit. I mean, what’s in it? Monsanto Roundup weedkiller?
M: Who the fuck knows. I can not be bothered to look it up. Dove hair minimising bla bla bla has wasted enough of my time as it is.
E: What percentage pissed off would you say you were? 78%?
M: Yes, roughly 78%.
E: And the rest is, what? Hair?
M: Yes. 12% hair, 10% stupidity.
E: Dove: Made by stupid people, for stupid people.
M: Readers, are you also stupid sweaty people? Please say yes.
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.
E: Well. I have started an Exciting New Facegoop Experiment.
M: Is it something to do with Excessive Capitalisation?
E: That’s my Germanic Scientific Side Coming Out. Anyway, let me tell you about it. My skin is dry at the moment. Really dry. It is dessicated, loose, flaky. I have slakke skin. Sexy stuff.
M: Like coconut.
E: Yeah. Like dessicated coconut sticking to my face. Exactly. There is obviously no hope of me ever looking like a human again, so I am donating my face to Science.
M: I’m not sure Science has much use for your face, but go on.
E: Well. My first project: Compare super ridiculously expensive Crème de la Mer “Gel de la Mer” …
Hang on. WTF. there is no GEL in the Mer. Not unless there has been an environmental disaster.
M: The Gulf of Mexico begs to differ. There are jelly fish – does that count?
E: Maybe, but I don’t know why they’d be so expensive. Anyway. I am comparing Jellyfish de la Mer with £5 supermarket L’Oréal moisturizer.
M: Which one?
E: It’s called “Triple Active Crème Hydratante, Peaux Sèches”
M: That sounds suspiciously like Belgian to me.
E It’s even better in flemish. ‘Droge huid” is dry skin.
M: And what scientific comparison are you doing exactly on your droge huid?
E: Aha. Have you got your lab coat on?
M: If it pleases you to think so, yes.
E: Well, on the LEFT side of my face I am applying the £5 droge huid cream and on the RIGHT side of my face I am applying the £££££££ Gel de la Mer. Twice daily. And we will see which performs better.
The “scientist” can’t tell her right from her left. M’s brain is liquefying from the confusion.
M: Is one of your sides going to get rather demanding? Will it ask for caviar for breakfast?
E Like Mariah Carey? Maybe.
M: Yes. It will tell people not to look it in the eye.
E: Maybe it will demand kittens to be rubbed against it.
M: So how is this tightly controlled clinical trial going?
E: I started this experiment on Thursday. So far, the Mariah Carey side has generated one spot. The £5 side none. Apart from that they both sides are slightly less coconutty.
M: Anything else to declare? Dewiness? Radiance? A desire to wear inappropriate clothing?
E: Nope. The Mariah Carey side has not made me glow with preternatural health and youth. Nor has the £5 side. Absolutely nothing to declare.
M: Well, I find this all rather deflating.
E: I know. But noone ever said science would be fun. Well, they might have done, but they LIED.
M: This review is a downer.
E: Do not despair, M, I am planning to report back at the weekend after extensive experiments with each side of my face. Do they repel goats? Can I see better out of one eye than the other? Does one side conduct electricity better than the other? Watch this space!
M: Can we just drink gin instead?
E: I’ll join you when I’ve finished dissecting this toad.
M: The Guerlain Midnight Secret is not so good with its hips though.
E: I suppose the secret is that you dance at the ambassador’s ball until the wee small hours, then you are up bright and early looking radiant the next morning for a gala breakfast with er, the ambassador’s wife . HOW????
M: Wait wait wait. Hold on. What is this, a Ferrero Rocher ad??
E: Yes. This is my view of Guerlain, see? It is basically a highly aspirational 1950s film condensed into small, expensive pots.
M: Except, in our version, you’ve been up to no good, snogging the ambassador’s son.
E: On current form, I would be more likely to have been snogging the ambassador’s dog.
M: You’ll need some Midnight Secret for that too. Continue.
E: So. In the Guerlain version of events, you kick off your dancing slippers (mirrored Louboutins, presumably) and sink into your goosedown quilt, pausing only to grab your Midnight Secret.
In E’s version, you reel home from a seedy transvestite cabaret by a method you do not remember the next morning. You wave a towelette in the direction of your face if you are feeling fancy. Then, despite the fact that you are too drunk to undress, the blue jar of promise winks at you so you slather some on optimistically. You wake up in the morning with eye make up and drool all over your pillow, and a head like a badger’s arse.
But! Your complexion is not as shit as it deserves to be.
M: Hmmm. Your method may differ from that of the polished socialite, but the result is the same, isn’t it? And that result is glowy, and dewy, and impossibly even skin.
E: The level of dewiness depends on the G & T count. But it is definitely pretty good. Also, it smells totally delicious.
M: What does it smell of?
E: It smells like a rose garden trampled at dawn by the dainty toes of M. Guerlain, possibly dancing like M. Louboutin in this video.
M: I think more M. Guerlain’s angelic, blonde haired little grand daughter. She is all dimples and smiles as she CRUSHES the flower into the heavy blue sarcophagus of a jar.
E: Now you’re making it sound like Gigi. With Maurice Chevalier as M. Guerlain.
“sank ‘eavens, for Midnight Secret!”
M: “fo’ you face she get more CRAGGY evereee daaaaaay”
Of course, there’s another ill guarded secret related to Midnight Secret. It’s fucking expensive.
E: Horribly so. But the ambassador is paying.
M: And what price your dignity?
E: My dignity is priceless.
M: Oh? Maybe you should wipe that dog slobber off your face then.
E: Sssssh. So: Midnight Secret. Magical. Expensive. Made by cinematic giants and set to music by Maurice Chevalier.
E: So, M. We have seen your cosmetics, corralled into recycled bread baskets. I do not need to tidy mine. Look! They are tidy. This is my bathroom cupboard:
There is a shelf for face, one for body, one for make up, and then some Other Stuff Shelves.
M: Ahahahahhahaha. “Tidy”.
E: What are you laughing about? They are tidy! Is that not tidy? It’s tidy by my standards.
M: Nothing, nothing.
E: Have you seen the box? We don’t mention the box.
M: Why is there a set of teeth in the box?
E: That is my tooth whitening mouth guard thing. But I won’t whiten my teeth any more because it hurts worse than childbirth. So, now I just have teeth in a box.
M: Of course you do. Teeth in a box.
E: There are a couple of upcoming review products in the cupboards: notably a Dior snake oil that actually looks like actual oil from actual yellow snakes.
M: Yes, yes. That’s all very well, but I have some questions for you.
E: Erm. Ok.
M: WHY do you have two identically grubby, half bottles of Benetint?
E: I don’t know. There is a third, full one in my makeup bag. It smells nice.
M: Ha. You must be the only person who actually uses the damn thing. I gave mine to my sister. She’s not using it. Next question. WHY do you have 5 gazillion tubes of No7 Protect & Perfect serum?
E: Yeah, I dunno. I think the unscrupulous pharmacists at Boots must have snuck in in the night and placed them with me. I never use them. I don’t actually believe in them, despite what Science tells us.
M: Ha. Science is Lying.
E: Science is an Ass.
M: Well, not exactly lying, just confusing us with statistics.
E: “23% of women experienced between 1 and 3% of satisfaction with this serum”.
M: “Look! A percentage of people saw a marked improvement of 0.00005% in their wrinkles! Miracle product! MIRACLE PRODUCT!!!”
I have one final question.
E: Uh oh.
M: Are the contents of your cupboards roughly the equivalent of the GDP of Malta?
E: At a conservative estimate, I would say they are. BUT. The Crème de la Mer gel was a present. Ditto the Dior oil and Dior lip gloss. All from Mrs Trefusis, who gives very brilliant make up advice, as well as quality presents. The rest is all my own ruinous work.
M: The overlords at HSBC will be pleased.
E: Yes. I believe that is what they are saying in the letters I never open. “Good work Emma”.
M: And in this spirit of generosity, let’s give some stuff away.
E: Ok. Well. This is The Facegoop NANOGIVEAWAY.
M: WOOH! Teeny tiny things.
E: Loads of tiny things.
M: Some good, some bad.
E: Yes. Like on this site, but not quite as good. All unopened and pristine though. We are not animals.
M: Ish. I sniffed some of mine.
E: Unopened and pristine apart from M sniffing. We will be each giving away a bundle of our teeny tiny samples.
M: What’s in your sample bag E?
E: Well, M. Because I am secretly fiendishly competitive and want mine to be best, there is some Good Shit in there. Look:
Can I just say, the thing that says “Lub” on the left is NOT lube. There is some Caudalie stuff, some Nuxe stuff, some Sisley, some Elemis, and some of the stuff from the Space NK bag of tricks. I might throw in some surprises too. Not my teeth though.
What’s in your sample bag, M?
M: What I lack in quality, I make up for in undercover action at dubious American Direct Sales Cosmetics companies’ events. Look:
There’s a good supply of Estée Lauder stuff, some Caudalie, some Avène, cute pots from Neal’s Yard, various foundation samples, some inexplicable Barry M dazzle dust I found in the drawer of doom, and a lifetime supply of Mary Kay frosted pink lipstick.
For your chance to win a sample bag of teeny tiny stuff, email us a photo of your cosmetic cupboards/drawers/bin before the 25th of April 2010. Tell us what your best/worst/weirdest purchase is. We’ll post a selection of your cosmetic confessions for our communal amusement and announce the winners at the end of the month. GO GO GO!
E: As promised, I have spent three days in the company of De Tuinen’s Chilean snail slime, made from unharmed, happy Helix Whatthefuck Snail.
M: Are you feeling sluggish? I know I am.
E: Ha. Very good M, I see what you did there. No, the gastropod gel did not have that effect on me. You will recall its promise of smooth silky skin and improved appearance of scarring? Well. I imagine it will come as no surprise to our readers to hear that it is ABSOLUTELY SHITE.
I can report the following effects:
1. Stubborn dry, irritated patch of skin on right cheek
2. Spots around mouth
M: That’s where you’ve been snogged by filthy boys. Filthy.
E: Hmph. Chance would be a fine thing. The closest I have got is being slimed on by a jar of snail mucous. Moving on.
3. Near death, as the jar of Snail Gel launched itself off the top of the fridge, aiming for my head.
M: Launched itself, extreeeeeemely slowly. In the manner of a snail.
E: No, M. The concentrated essence of gastropod moves alarmingly fast. I suspect an attack by the Snafia.
4. Mild irritation, cleaning gloopy slime off the floor.
M: Well, I must say I am disappointed. I thought the Chileans were on to something.
E: Well. It would appear they are onto something murderous, and crap.
M: They have rosehips, and llamas, how could things go so badly wrong with the snail gel?
E: Maybe if you have Chilean skin it works better?
M: Maybe. Maybe you need the high altitude and cheery personality to make it work. Living in Belgium, you have neither.
E: No. You are quite correct. However, I have learnt that my garden is home to a snail anvil, so all is not lost.
M: Oh god. What is a snail anvil?
E: Commenter Alison tells me it is a place where small, bastard birds smash snails open.
M: For snacking?
E: Yes. Oh! That reminds me. I also tasted the Snail Gel, because someone on twitter asked me to. It tasted horrid.
M: Now there’s a surprise.
E: Yes. Astonishing.
M: Honesty, you are a danger to yourself.Somebody needs to lock you in a empty room, with no internet access and no credit cards. You are grounded, E. BEAUTY grounded.
E: Why? Because of the tasting, or the breakage?
M: Why don’t you sit quietly in a corner and THINK about what you’ve done to your face. When you’re ready to apologize (to your face), you can come out again.
E: I HATE YOU AND I WISH I HAD NEVER BEEN BORN (you can’t see it, but I am flouncing now).
M: I WISH I WAS ADOPTED.
E: I AM ADOPTED AREN’T I? YOU AREN’T MY REAL PARENTS.
M: YOU STOLE MY PARENTS’ KIDNEYS. WHAT’S THE POINT IN LIVING ANYMORE?
E: YEAH. AND I NEED TWENTY QUID TO TOP UP MY PHONE. So. In conclusion: Snail Gel, even at half price, is a pile of evil mucous. The end.
M Yes. I had war paint on. And by war paint, I mean I combed my hair.
E: Because just occasionally I like to pretend I am in charge at Facegoop towers.
M: Oy! You are in charge! ish.
E: Of course i am. If by “in charge” you mean “your terrified subordinate”, then yes, I am in charge. Anyway. I sent you on a mission and you have, I believe, returned triumphant.
E: Tell me all.
M: I braved the squawking army of pink cheeked mac girls to retrieve this:
E: Ooooooooh my makeup bag! Come to momma.
M: Although why you would pay £24 for a bit of a print and a zipper, I’m not sure.
E: It has birds on, OK?
M: OK. BIRDS. Whatever. I did paw the scarf too though. It was nice. Thin and soft. Of course I blame you entirely for what happened next.
E: Oh dear. What did happen next?
M: I was drawn to the Chanel counter by invisible threads, like in a creepy puppet film.
E: Ouh la la. C’est pas bon, ça. Were they diffusing the scent of giant macarons to lure you in?
M: They had essence of Vanessa Paradis wafting. Not Joe le taxi Vanessa Paradis. Chanel Vanessa Paradis. Two very different BIRDS.
E: A taxi is a bird? I did not know this. I bet she’s a patchouli girl in real life though. Dirty barefoot hippie, living in the country with that bearded waster.
M: Yes. Do you think he just speaks in pirate speak?
M: Arrrr. That be a fine cupcake, Vanessa.
E: Arrrrrrrrr. First mate Paradis, plait me beard or I’ll make you walk the plank.
M: The end of the story is that I bought the fecking Mademoiselle lipstick, because I was brain washed by how pretty and wearable it is.
E: Oh man. And what colour is Mademoiselle?
M: It’s VANESSA PARADIS COLOURED. It’s the colour of Pretty. It is Joli.
E: Bon. Clearly I will get no sense out of you. You’ll just have to post a photo.
M: What, like this?
M: Not sure Vanessa would approve of my application “skillz”. Speaking of her, you must watch this:
E: Ils sont cons, ces français.
M: They are comparing her to Titi, the irritating yellow cartoon bird.
E: Nice tail. Céline on the Armani counter at Printemps Beauté would be jealous.
M: “On est dans une logique cartésienne”, they say. I am getting flashbacks to first year lectures at the Sorbonne.
E: C’est archi archi français, ça.
M: Oui. 100% français.
E: Hang on, we’ve got distracted again. What were we saying? You bought lipstick.
M: I blame you. The end.
E: I have also been beauty shopping, M. I have Chosen.
M: Chosen What?
E: The Chosen One. Every year, I choose a cellulite cream in which to place my ridiculous faith. I went to the pharmacy this week and It was on the counter.
M: Oh dear. This is not in the spirit of Easter.
E: The “presentoir” in which the boxes were placed was black and shiny, like it really meant business.
M: Cellulite business.
E: It was Vichy, my favourite of all of last year’s stupid snake oil creams. New Improved Vichy Nonsense.
E: Because the world has moved on since Lipo Dissolve, or whatever the last one was. Cellulite technology lies move fast. Now we have ….
E: Yes. It is a made up word they hope sounds scientific and slimming.
M: That’s like one of those bad overstock stores in Etienne Marcel. Kookai stock from 3 years ago. LA GRANDE BRADERIE de la CELLULITE!
E: PRIX HALLUCINANTS SUR LES CAPITONS!!!!! Je suis d’accord. However! Peer closer into the Vichy tube.
M: Must I?
E: Yes. The contents are pale green, the exact colour of Chanel Jade nail polish. And it contains something called a “lypolytic activator” How can it fail? It has a “lypolytic activator”, which is basically Mr Motivator for my fat. It pokes your fat until it wakes up and goes away.
M: Ugh. I am tired just thinking about it.
E: It is, you will be delighted to hear, “tested in vitro on lipocidine”. As opposed to tested on, say, LEGS.
M: Of course. Why wouldn’t it be? Legs are not hygienic, E. Everyone knows that. You think those lab-coated scientists have ever been NEAR a leg? Have they balls.
E: My favourite bit is the German for “diet resistant problem zones”, which is “Hartknäckigen Problemenzonen”
M: Knäcki. That’s a sausage, isn’t it? Well, my thighs DO look like sausages. I am sold. SOLD!
E: Well. It’s been a tremendous weekend for beauty purchasing. We have done well. Hohe funf, M?
E: Well. I wanted to do a proper scientific controlled test of snail gel. Because, you know. I am all about the science.
M: Yes. Lab coat? Check. Severe glasses? Check. Clipboard? Check. You are the Monica of cosmetic testing.
E: Rigorous. Stringent. So I have been looking for snails with which to perform a controlled test. But you know what? Something very very sinister is happening.
M: Uh oh.
E: Where once the slithery little blighters were everywhere, now there are NONE. There is not a single snail in the whole of my slimy, neglected snail paradise of a garden.
M: Interesting. Iiiiinteresting. It’s the APOCALYPSE, isn’t it?
E: SNAPOCALYPSE maybe
E: Text edit says “this word not found in the dictionary”. Really, Textedit? That’s an oversight.
M: SNAILOCALYPSE. In all good dictionaries worldwide.
E: Anyway. The only thing I could find were these:
E: Dried out snail carcasses. I can tell you, my blood ran cold.
M: Do you think the snails are mutating? Turning into freakish slugs?
E: No. I do not think they are mutating. I think something far, far more sinister is happening.
M: Oh god. OH GOD. They are being harvested, aren’t they?
E: YES. The evil Dutch boffins at De Tuinen – which, uncoincidentally, means THE GARDEN – are sneaking into Belgium in the dead of night and harvesting my snails. The snail gel is in fact made with plucky belgian garden snails. None of this Chilean bullshit.
M: Gringo caracol.
E: Aaaaanyway. In the absence of control snails, I decided I would just decorate the pot instead.
M: Fair enough.
E: I thought so. Scientific.
M: Yes. Aesthetically scientific. So what’s it like, this wonder goo?
E: Well. It says on the jar that it has “a beneficial effect on impure skin”. my skin is very impure. It is full of wine, cheap chocolate, cold remedies and the occasional stick of cancerous death.
M: Oh boy. Your skin is definitely impure. I bet it has impure thoughts.
E: Pope Benedict the Bastard has issued an edict against my skin. Fact. Perfect, then, to test the snail gel, which makes the following promise in alluring, grammatically approximate English:
“The skin will become silky soft and very smooth. By coincidence it was discovered that the slime the Helix Aspersa Muller snails use to repair the snail shell’s, has a soothing and beneficial effect on the human skin”.
I have no idea if this is true as I have only used it once so far. But I can tell you this: It is VERY VERY STICKY.
M: Never. Snail goo? Sticky? Next you’ll be saying La Prairie is expensive.
E: There is absolutely no doubt that you are smearing the mucousy ooze of snails on your face.
M: Oh man. Is it on you right now? Can you go outside with it?
E: Yes. It is on me right now. Probably drying to a silvery, flaky trail effect. I am perfectly safe to go outside. I’ll be fine as long as I don’t eat too much salt. If I eat salt I will shrivel and liquefy. (It doesn’t say that on the jar).
M: No, but we know this to be fact.
E: I would like, at this point, to remind our readers that “Gathering the slime does not harm the snails” This IS stated on the jar.
M: We have photographic evidence to the contrary.
E: The snail cemetery that is my garden begs to differ.
M: So, is your skin soft and silky smooth?
E: So far there is no discernable softness or silkiness. But I am committing to applying this for THREE WHOLE DAYS.
E: I will do this for you, Facegoop readers, even though it will probably give me angry monkey face on easter weekend when I have Plans that involve leaving the house and seeing other human beings. Iwill report back on my mucousy progress.
M: I can’t wait, but is this wise?
E: No. It is not at all wise. It’s, it’s…………. SCIENCE.
E: Who is Jergens? Should I be aware of his work? He sounds like a Danish exchange student. I bet he’s probably a mate of the freakishly youthful looking Ole Henriksen. Or do I mean Henrik Olesen? Who knows. They are probably raising money to go interrailing by selling beauty products.
M: Finnish, perhaps. In any case, he probably eats a lot of herring.
E: I should imagine so. His essential fatty acids would be through the roof. And they’re cheap when you’re saving to go to Amsterdam. Tell me more.
M: Well, you know how moisturising and I do not really see eye to eye?
E: I am aware of this. Moisturising isn’t a close friend of mine either.
More one of those people who you have to do a fake smile at across a busy bar, then ignore and pray they don’t come over.
M: Moisturising, in a nutshell, is a bastard.
E: Yeah. Boring too. A boring bastard.
M: So, you will imagine my surprise when I bought my third bottle of this.
E: Bloody hell. What is it, exactly?
M: “Jergens Naturals Skin firming body moisturiser with pomegranate extract”. I realized the other day that I have been using it every day. And do you want to know why?
E: Of course I do. Tell me!
M: It claims to “visibly firm cellulite prone skin”.
E: Yeah, and allow you to fly to work on a gilded unicorn. How many times have you heard that one?
M: Well, let me tell you, my friend, it is TRUE.
E: True? Truly truly true?
M: TRUE. TRULY TRUE. I mean, I’m no leaping gazelle. I am very very far from being a leaping gazelle. All smooth, furry lithe limbs, delicate face and golden eyes.
E: Mmmmmmm so pretty.
M: To give us some background here, I had foie gras and bakewell tart tonight. For dinner. Again.
E: Good dinner. I applaud your choices. Not unsalted plaice fillet en papillote with some steamed spinach?
M: No. My thighs. They are dimpled. And this, THIS! This makes them less dimpled.
E: I am quite amazed. Totally amazed actually. I mean, you know how much I want to believe.
M: Actually, they are not really less dimpled. The fat is still there. But it strengthens the skin and firms it and, what, thickens it? So that the fat is less visible.
E: Smoothes it perhaps.
M: Yes. VISIBLY. The bottle says in 2 uses but that is a lie. I noticed the difference half way through the second bottle. Coincidentally, during water week.
E: Ssssssh we will not speak of that.
M: Do you want to know how much this costs?
E: Of course I do. £100 for 30ml? Rodial stylee?
M: No. It is cruelty free. And Paraben free. And Made in the UK for low carbon miles whatever the fuck that means. And it’s… £4.99.
E: Ha! Less than FIVE of your British pounds! A cheap, non planet flaying cellulite remedy.
M: This, my fellow cellulite miracle searcher, is a HG. I mean, it’s obviously made of embryos or something (“96% natural ingredients”). Stolen embryos bought on the Chinese black market.
E: Too dear. Probably pigeon embryos.
M: I have used many cellulite creams. MANY.
E: Ha. I think we can agree we both have.
M: Tell me about some of the crap you have used.
E: Well. I have used Vichy Lipometric, Caudalie Firming complex, Shiseido Body Creator, Sisley Celluli-Pro, the collected works of St Jeanne de Piaubert.
M: Did she burn your cellulite at the stake?
E: No, she made me wear ill-fitting cycling shorts. And her pump dispensers kept breaking. The only one that did anything was the Vichy. And it just gave your skin a metallic sheen. I liked the metallic sheen. I felt a little bit robotic.
M: I had a rather expensive Karin Herzog duo that was made of oxygen and old grannies. That’s what it smelled like, at least. Various sticky ones. I hate those sticky ones. Those stupid tubes with the tiny tiny plastic massage heads attached to them. And the serums, that you have to keep in the fridge.
E: I had those big patches you stuck on your bum cheeks, like nicotine replacement therapy.
M: And, of course, there was the infamous Philips Celesse of DOOM.
E: Ah, yes. The Philips Celesse is probably a post in itself. And do you remember when I wrote to a cellulite pants doctor to try and get him to send us some? He never replied, bastard.
M: We would have tested them faithfully.
E: You realise we could be richer than oligarchs if we had never embarked upon cellulite treatment madness.
M: Yes. Especially considering that most of my cellulite treatment madness took place in my late teens and early twenties, when I had perfectly acceptable thighs.
E: It’s probably best not to think of it. We’ll cry. Where do you get Jergens from? Your local youth hostel? Hanging out with Ole Henriksen and Dr Brandt? Did you take off his backpack and coax him out with the promise of a can of cider and a tiny joint?
M: Yes. You will find him filling up on the free Danish pastries in the tawdry canteen. Boots, dude. Boots. Always freaking Boots.
E: Wow. Boots. 4.99 and. IT. WORKS. I need a lie down.
M: One last thing.
M: I think I’ve found the magic ingredient on the back label.
M: It says it has: “Helianthus Annuus seed oil”.
E: Ahahahahhahahaahaa. Anus seed oil????? You can see why it’s cheap.
M: Yup. Whatever, my thighs are smooth.
E: I’d keep that hidden in your backpack under your crumpled miracle towel, Jergens.
E: Hello M. I have a bag of Space NK BADNESS. So much free stuff. This week end (Friday and Saturday), if you spend £60 they give you a huge bag of stuff. STUFF.
M: I went to space NK too. Ididn’t buy anything though because I WANTED TO KNOW WHAT WAS IN THE BAG FIRST.
E: OK. Well, I can tell you.
M: YAY!!! Go through the whole bag. It’s like getting the bag, without paying for the bag. And actually having to store all the stuff that comes in the bag. And remembering to throw the bag out rather than letting it fester in a corner full of other bags. And getting boils from using the stuff that is in the bag.
E: I don’t understand a single solitary bit of what you just said.
M: I’m saying, this is fun because I get all the fun of the space NK goodie bag without any of the inconvenience.
E: And without any of the joyful, hand rubbing glee, staring at your heap of free tat, though. Look!
M: Nice photo.
E: Shut up. Starting at the top, there’s a full sized thing of Space NK lavender hand wash. Hands will always need washing. Useful. Decent sized shower gel in “Jump Start” flavour. Small pot of Eve Lom cleanser and cloth. All good. Next, “WEI” cream, entitled “Royal Ming firming and hydrating cream”
M: I have some sarcastic comment to make about “Jump Start”, but I’m too distracted by WEI cream. What is WEI cream? Is it made of tiny lithe Chinese girls? Because it sounds likes it is.
E: I’m more concerned about whether it’s pronounced WEE or WAY. If there are Chinese girl in there, they’d have to be tiny. It’s a very small pot. Next, we have a nice high-tec blue and silver tube called “Dr Brandt Collagen Booster”.
M: Ha. I bet you love this because it has “Dr” in the name.
E: You are right, I love a doctor. Put your lab coat on Dr Brandt and tell me about peptides.
M: You are also a big fan of the Complex. If I squeezed out an old tea bag and labelled it “Dr M C4 Pepto-complex”, would you buy it?
E: Would it promise thinner thighs? Then I would. Who am I kidding, I would buy it regardless of its intoxicating promises because of the doctor bit. Doctors do not lie. Next, I think ridiculous name prize from the bag goes to “Elemental Herbology Cell Plumping”. The rest is teeny tiny samples. There’s a By Terry foundation. Bound to be too dark, foundation samples always are. Darphin Hydralight Skin whatever the fuck that is.Tiny sachet of Fekkai glossing cream and tiny sachet of Lubatti “dreamy night cream”. Couple of scent samples – Sisley and Acqua di Parma. The End.
M: And what did you have to buy to get all this bounty?
E: Well. You had to spend £60. So I went to see our old friend “Mr” “Nars“, who was represented by a pretty Spanish boy who they are probably grooming to be the next face of “Mr” “Nars”. “You wanta a fraiysh, spreenglike look?” he asked me. “Si si” I said. “I DO want a fresh springlike look, instead of this gin sodden crone look. Yes please. Et pouf! Sixty quid gone in seconds.
M: Pouf indeed, guapito. Oh god. Did you buy green eyeshadow? Bright lemongrass green eyeshadow?
E: No! I bought the famous Mutiple in Orgasm. No comment. I also bought a freaking lip gloss. I blame that Slagheap. It’s all her fault, coaxing me into they way of the sticky mouth.
M: What lip gloss?
E: It’s called Turkish Delight. Pinky neutral. Not too glassy glossy.
M: What else did you get? I bet there’s more.
E: I got a Matt Velvet Lip Pencil because you said it was the dog’s bollocks.
M: It is the dog’s bollocks. What colour?
E: Let me check.. Ha! WALKRYIE. I AM SPROUTING WINGS AND SINGING CONTRALTO. I AM WEARING A BREASTPLATE. Why is this pleasant nudeish lip pencil called Walkyrie? It seems most un-Walkyrie like.
M: Weil die Mädchen, sie sind nude, ja?
E: Ah, genau. Erm what else did I buy? Nothing I think. Oh, some eye make up remover. Talika, which I always get.
M: Any good?
E: Yes. It’s really really good for sensitive eyes and mine are mofoing sensitive.
M: What with having no lashes and all?
E: Yes. It says it’s « pour yeux hypersensibles » and it really is.
M: Eh ben, hyper cool.
E: Hyper, super, méga sensibles. It’s cool and non-stingy and gets everything off quickly. Hang on, I found another thing in the bag of goodies. Nude Eye Complex.
M: Oh, I tried the Nude cleansing oil. It was rather nice.
E: Was this your Space NK trip? Tell me about it.
M: Well. I was a space NK virgin and I went in with my red monkey face woes.The glossy haired, fresh faced assistant was very nice. She picked out Nude oil, Darphin serum, Ren creams and gave me a mini facial.
E. Nice. They ARE nice in Space NK. They should be at the prices they charge.
M: There were lots of explanations. She said “YOU NEED TO EXFOLIATE”.
I said “LISTEN UP PUNK ASS MY FACE IS RAW, RAW I TELL YOU”.
It started stinging when she put the serum on so she took it all off again and put on some Caudalie cream, which was ok. But!
M: Then I had to kick her in the groin when she tried to put Rêve de Miel on me, and made a run for the door.
E: Back off with your Cauchemar de Miel!
M: If you’re reading, kind Space NK lady, I am sorry. I’M SORRY I KICKED YOU. It wuz my face wot made me do it.
E: No, it was the bees. The bees made you do it.
M: It was, the fuzzy stripy bastards. But I am still thinking about the oil. It was good. Maybe I will wait until Muji’s is released next month or whenever.
E: Muji has an oil?
M: Yes, it is meant to be very good but it hasn’t launched in the UK yet. More reliably informed beauty blogs have confirmed this.
E: There is one more thing in the bag, but it was a special gift from “Mr” “Nars” for buying too much of his crackmakeup. And it is A GIVEAWAY.
M: OOOOH A GIVEAWAY. This will please ‘Mr’ ‘Nars’.
E: Si si senorita. It is a Nars Glitter Pencil. I cannot endorse it because I have never tried it, but we know the faceless corporation behind “Mr” “Nars” is a genius and wishes us nothing but good.
E: Actual scientifically proven fact. And it is full sized and I have not played with it and it’s in a box and so on. It’s sort of pale creamy with a big old fuck off sparkle. Actually more of a glitter as the name suggests.
M: Here is a non-accurate pictorial representation of said glitter pencil:
M: So what do they have to do to get it?
E: Well. they have to tell us what the shittest beauty freebie they ever got contained. They can of course lie and say ‘half a weasel and a piece of pork crackling’ if they want.
M: Ok. Sounds good. Sounds… tasty. Mmmm, weasel crackling.
E: Mmmmmm those juicy plump weasels.
Right, you know what to do. Comment in the box below for a chance to win a “Mr” “Nars” glittery pencil. You have until midnight on Wednesday the 31st of March.
E: You seem excited M. Why is that? Tell us, tell us!
M: Before I begin, can I just say how ace our readers are. Batshit crazy, but ace. In response to my Angry Face Syndrome cry for help, they’ve recommended rubbing plants on my face, baby lotion, expensive oils, Vaseline (?!?!?), not eating curry (ha! fat chance), stuff that looks and feels like lard, and organic hippie juice. And no one has mentioned the monkey. Ace.
E: I liked the cocktails best. They are big on cocktails. I am telling you, they are Our People.
M: Yes, Our People. On Crack.
E: Yes. Sssssh.
M: Ssssh. So, inspired by their advice, I went on a tour of Edinburgh’s Health Shops.
E: Uh oh. I remember when I came to visit you and we stared in the window of the Organic Sex Shop and laughed until I nearly peed at the hemp dildos.
M: What is it with shop attendants in health shops?
E: They are all on heroin.
M: The beards.
E: The deathly pallor.
M: The slackness in the jaw. The nervous disposition.
E: They look anything but healthy. ‘Eat our tofu, and you can look this shit too’.
M: So, I went to Neal’s Yard first.
E: Who is Neal anyway, what’s in his yard, and why does he spell his name in such a stupid way? I smell hippie. Ssssssss.
M: Sssss what?
E: That’s my hippie scaring noise. I grew up in a den of them.
M: Oh god.
E: I am fearful already. WHAT? What have they done to you?
M: So, the woman only ever looked at me out of the corner of my eye. HER eye. Not my eye.
E: That would just be weird.
M: Anyway, she pulled out all these creams, said “I haven’t tried most of them”, and then left me to it.
E: Er, right. ok. Stellar customer service there.
M: “I don’t want to stand over you while you’re trying them on”. Makes a change, hippie.
E: In the wrong job, hippie.
M: So, they all smelled really strong. Like someone had crushed truck loads of flowers into one tiny pot.
E: I hate that.
M: I got some samples, and made my boyfriend smell one, without telling him where it was from. He said “WHOA, now that smells like a hippie”.
E: He has a nose for hippy. Was he also raised in a commune?
E: Und the name! Who the fuck puts snail slime on their FACE?
M: THE DUTCH.
E: You know what that is, don’t you. It’s the extremely potent cannabis resin in their siroopwaffeln.
E: Oh holy mother of god. It’s actually called Snail Gel. I could not be happier. It would be IMPOSSIBLE to be happier.
M: YES! SNAIL gel. S.N.A.I.L. GEL.
E: How much is snail gel M? Because I think we have to try it.
M: You’ll find it’s a very reasonable £20.45. BUT it’s half price at the moment.
E: Oooooh. BARGAIN. SNAIL GEL HALF PRICE STEAL.
M: My boyfriend wanted to know if you have to use the snail as an applicator. I said I wasn’t sure.
E: On that photo, is the snail big, or is the pot small? Is it one of those GIANT snails?
M: Like an African land snail?
E: Yes. It looks like our African land snail looked before my ex decided it “would be happier outside”.
E: It was not happier outside.
M: Outside… in snail PARADISE.
E: It was,in fact very rapidly dead. And happier In A Better Place.
M: In the big Chilean snail farm in the sky.
E: Actually, De Tuinen means ‘garden’, I believe, so they are probably just bog standard Dutch snails from someone’s backyard cannabis farm. Oh, Holland and Barrett. You are Facegoop GOLD.
M: It was amazing. AMAZING. There was so, so much more. Goji berry creams. Ear candles. Aloe vera colon cleanse!
E Dutch snail goo. Is the “Holland” in their name related to Holland Holland? Because that would explain a LOT.
M: Yes, yes it would.
E: I am in London next week. I will also go on a field trip to Holland & Barrett. I will not rest until I have smeared my face in the secretions of Dutch snails. Using an actual Dutch snail to apply it.
E: Why? What did you put on it? I’ve told you about trying to wash your face with Mr Muscle.
M: Nothing. I have gone back to a minimal, gentle routine because it is so ANGRY.
E: I wonder why it is angry? (WATER)
M: I blame all this stuff I’ve been poking for Face Goop. And Laura Mercier. And a virulent Ren mask. And Belgeland water.
E: Not the itchy nude minerals?
M: No, I have new ones that aren’t itchy and that seem to calm it down. But it’s basically super dry.
E: Strange. Verrrry strange (WATER)
M: I don’t think I realized how dry it was getting when I was cycling throughout the winter and now it is DAMAGED. It’s dry, spotty, lined, red, and it BURNS.
E: Hmmm. What miracle remedies do you have?
M: Nothing. I have NOTHING. No holy water, no tiny scientists in a tube, no elk-musk-testicle ointment. I am in pain and I have NOTHING.
E: When I was having a dry skin emergency earlier this year, someone told me to take those Imedeen capsules. She said they sound like bullshit but they really work.
M: Oh? Use them as in eat them?
E: No, dance the fucking chachacha with them. What do you think?
M: Listen, punk, sometimes people squeeze those capsules onto their faces. I have seen it. I might have some somewhere actually. I need something to tell my skin to sit down and shut the fuck up, and then to give it a nice pat on the head when it starts behaving.
E: Can I just take a moment to say water? You are shite. M is hot and burny and dry. I am spotty. And I am doing nothing else different at all. It must be the badness coming out. Turns out the badness was just fine where it was, wasn’t it, water? I’m keeping my badness next time, thanks.
M: Don’t anger the badness.
E: Yup. No good can come of this watery exorcism, as evidenced by my face from HELL.
It is supposed to be genius, but I am suspicious of it because it has patchouli in it, which is basically squeezed out hippie.
E: Essence of hippie. I knew it. Neal’s Yard. You try and make out you are like, proper, mainstream beauty industry sell outs, but scratch the surface and you are still a bunch of tofu knitting, tiger balm, incense freaks. I get possessed by the unquiet spirit of Richard Nixon every time I see one of your blue glass jars.
M: I smell white dreadlocks.
E: You don’t want to squeeze a hippie. That’s what you get when you squeeze a hippie.
M: Or how about the Weleda rose cream? Someone wanted us to test that.
E: That would probably be cheaper. Because we got told off yesterday for only testing expensive stuff.
M: Yes. £9.95. Pas mal, pas mal. But I might try the almond one instead because it is for sensitive skin. What are you going to do about your face spottiness?
E: Nothing. Ignore it.
M: That sounds reasonable.
E: I have covered it in Armani Luminous Silk and Laura Mercier Secret Camouflage.
M: What happened to the magical Laura Mercier powder of fluffy kittens?
E: Yeah, that’s still good. But I was in the bathroom and the Armani was all there was to hand and it has, ‘ow you say? Coverage.
M: Coverage, innit. Hmm, looking at this Weleda again. Why do people put witch hazel in everything? Witch Hazel is EVIL. It has witch essence in it.
E: Oh? I have not had problems with Witch Hazel.
M: Pah. That is because you are 37% witch yourself.
E: Now you are just getting mean and abusive. It’s your face of fire doing that. Hey, we could ask readers for advice on your dry face.
M: SOS dry spotty skin of doom emergency! Red, hot, and burny. Grrrrr.
E: Please, Facegoop readers, help M solve her red hot dry spotty skin disaster before she hurts me. This morning she sent me a picture of a two headed kitten. I am afraid of what will happen if it doesn’t improve.
E: Because it’s a pen you draw on your face with. Usually I am wiping the pen OFF the faces. I want a turn. Also, it looks cute and it’s a stain and not a lipstick, what with my Condition (Pervasive Lip Colour Fear Syndrome). I want to branch out into something a bit fresher and pinkier and I thought I might be able to cope with this.
M: Ooooh! It’s lovely. They should sell them in multi-packs, like felt tip pens.
2. Serge Lutens – L’Eau
E: I think this is an emperor’s new clothes scenario. I like it because it’s Serge Lutens who is like a druid of perfume, and one of those demented genius types and also because there’s a whole concept and years of scent boffin thought gone into it. This, according to Magda in Selfridges, is your ‘day off’ fragrance. ”It’s an anti-perfume” says Mr Lutens, who seems to have been smoking the carpet again “A breath of pure mountain air”. I didn’t meet him in Selfridges, sadly. It’s not supposed to be a fragrance at all, or some such bollocks. It’s supposed to just smell clean. It does smell clean, that’s for sure. Cleaner than anything in my house, any of my clothes, cleaner than me. Cleaner than I have EVER BEEN. It smells of Persil and OCD. But for some reason I want it. Want want want. Maybe I just want to be clean for once? I tried it a couple of weeks ago, walked round thinking ‘eew, that smells like washing powder” all afternoon, then spent the evening and the next day obsessing about how I could get my hands on some more. So whatever he put in there definitely works. Catnip for humans.
Man, trying to find the price for this, I have had to read a shitload of florid bollocks. Fragrance writers and parfumiers are loons. The end.
M: I passed out after the word “perfume”. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.
3. Serge Lutens – Sa Majesté La Rose
E: I tried this on at a friend’s house and now I want it. It’s not an intimidating, complex, bottom notes of foxes arse, scent. It just smells of roses, innit. Proper fat roses that you want to shove your whole face into.
M: Getting a headache just from reading this. Next.
E: I read about this recently and it sounds like the biz. It smells of roses and it’s a body exfoliant. Two excellent points in its favour if you are me. It’s made of ground up rose thorns, which just sounds ace, if painful.
M: The packaging makes me want to eat macarons. I’m not sure that’s really going to help with body smoothness.
E: £100, but there is a VIDEO. About a woman who lost 4 inches on her stomach with this stuff. That’s incendiary for me. I just have to have it. I spent a long time staring at it in Printemps Beauté at New Year, but I was with M and she wouldn’t let me buy it. Bitch.
M: I don’t remember that. But I do love the title of the product page in my browser: “Tummy Tuck, Boob Job, Slimming – Reduce Cellulite”. Classy, Rodial.
E: I just want to believe in this. Want, NEED to believe it works. I was the person who bought Stri-Vectin to use for its original, anti-stretchmark application. Nah, didn’t make a blind bit of difference, and I doubt this would either, but I love the Nip/Tuck style inflated claims, semi-hysterical testimonials, packaging and glossy Miami arses on the website.
E: I have wanted this stuff for a good year without ever managing to get it, and now I want it even more. I particularly like how it says on the website “OFFICIALLY CHOSEN TO BE FEATURED AT THE 2010 OSCARS CELEBRITY RED CARPET GIFT EVENT”, a phrase which seems to contain several words too many. Does this mean Jeff Bridges got some in his goodie bag? That pleases me no end. ALT is famous for its claim to make your cellulite disappear in NINE MINUTES. It’s the big daddy of nonsensical cellulite creams, and for that I love it. Also note the reassuring qualification “Not using human stem cells”. Er, good?
M: E would totally steal your stem cells if she could. Watch out.
What’s on your wish list? Gratuitous spring lamb photo by RATAEDL.