Mascara & Modelling

From a glamour perspective it’s fair to say that I’m probably as high maintenance as an empty packet of crisps. I wouldn’t call myself scruffy either, just that I tend to dress for comfort as opposed to making a fashion statement.

The same also applies to hair and make up. The former looks stylish for about 2 days in 2 months, those being when someone competent gets their hands on it. The rest of the time it looks as if someone without a clue has randomly ruffled wax in it (which is of course exactly what I do).

As for make up, well nursing doesn’t require much in the way of facepaint so my skin spends 99% of the time au naturel. If I’m feeling really extravagant I may grab the mascara – though it’s all a bit hit and miss as the mirror in the bathroom has usually steamed up so I end up either poking myself in the eye on clumping all my eyelashes together. Neither of which are good looks. There is of course a slim chance that one day my skin may thank me for leaving it as a blank canvas.

So why is it then that I have over the past few weeks found myself being drawn into the world of Living TV’s “America’s Next Top Model”. A reality TV programme which does as it says and wheedles out the wheat from the chaff (or should I say chav) to find the best America has to offer.

Do I watch it with aspirations of becoming a model? Quite definitely not (fortunate really as I lack all the necessary attributes). Though I have to confess to shimmying up and down the lounge practicing my catwalk poses. All of course to the incredulation of the other half, who inbetween dodging my artistic end of catwalk flourishes enquires as to: 'why?'

I think its attraction is simple. Firstly it’s on when I come home from work and is proving to be the perfect antidote to relieving the stress of sitting on the M4 for an hour. Secondly, it’s pure and simple voyeurism.

Though having said all that as I’m drawn further and further in I find myself enjoying what it’s about – the illusions of beauty. It’s reassuring to come to the realisation that women aren’t born supermodels. Yes, there are naturally beautiful women out there, but hours and hours of high maintenance tweaking and re-styling takes then to the images that adorn the catwalks and pages of our magazines.

There is an element of the interllectual snob within that is not impressed with the rest of me for watching it, even less now that I find myself rushing through the door to tune in. There are of course a million other more productive things I could be doing. But I’m sure, at least I hope the novelty will wear off soon ...

Untill then, tomorrow I’m going to town to buy some hair dye.