So, a plump makeup bag nestles safely in my dressing table drawer as I nod off, happy that my high-end foundation is ready to make me look like ‘me, only a million times better’ in the morning. I didn’t want to spend that much on a foundation, but how could I not when I had such amazing compliments from the orange girl at the counter… “Your skin, madam, is luminous! You’re how old? Sorry? Please! Surely you mean thirty eight, not forty eight!” Ahhh, off I nod with a smile on my face.
7am I awake…pillow creases adorn my sallow cheeks, violet blue arcs dented underneath my eyes. But fear not! Liquid magic is awaiting within my make-up bag and soon all will be well with the world – and my face will no longer frighten little children on the morning dog walk. But…what’s this? The red, leather pouch I’ve come to love like a child, seems less padded than last night. In fact, it’s almost flaccid! I zip it open and almost faint. GONE! ALL MY MAKE-UP IS GONE! All that’s left is a nub of a 10-year-old shimmery lippie and a blunt eyeliner. I run – hobble – downstairs as fast as my poor old hips will allow and, just as I thought: there sitting at the kitchen island is The Teen. Not the exhausted looking one with a splattering of hormonal blemishes on her chin who stomped angrily upstairs to bed last night because ‘it’s NOT FAIR’ (can’t remember what wasn’t fair because nothing is fair as far as she’s concerned). No, here was a teen whose skin looked as if it had been caressed and anointed by the fair hands of a hundred sweet singing cherubs. She was glowing with youth, wrinkle free, not a bloody spot or crinkle in sight. Now it’s my turn to say it: IT’S NOT FAIR!