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When I moved out of London 13 years ago, I found a whole other reason not to drive. This was because my new husband Dan, unlike my dad, did drive, and this became a great source of fun and adventure.
Surely being a Professional Beauty – let alone an ageing one – is one of the most insecure and doomed careers imaginable.
I’ve always thought of beauty therapy, ‘alternative’ treatments and the like as the female equivalent of brothels – for essentially self-deceiving people who feel a bit hollow and have to pay to be touched.
What sort of sap doesn’t know by now that picture-perfect beauty is all done with smoke and mirrors anyway?
Shame, like beauty, is often in the eye of the beholder.
What I find most upsetting about this new all-consuming beauty culture is that the obsession with good looks, and how you can supposedly attain them, is almost entirely female-driven.