Left to its own devices, I suspect that my hair would now be
100% grey and consequently, I am obliged to visit the hairdresser’s every three
weeks in order to maintain the myth of the brilliant brunette locks. Given that I practically live there, you would
think that I would arrive at my appointment prepared to fill the time it takes
to bring-back-the-brown by indulging in a spot of reading, maybe by taking
along my Kindle, a book, a magazine?
Yet, in spite of the fact that I have been high maintenance
for some years now, I habitually turn up at the hairdresser’s armed with
absolutely nothing to read. Occasionally, I regard this as an opportunity
to tidy my phone and delete the 100s of emails, messages and long-forgotten
photographs taken by some talentless drunkard, but mostly, I have little choice
but to delve into my hairdresser’s magazine rack.
Now, I have a great deal of respect for my hairdresser – she
is a superfast, fab stylist, and has looked after my head for more than twenty
years - but her magazine rack, in terms of choice, quality and currency, is
undeniably poor.
I must say I’ve never been a massive fan of magazines,
perhaps because my experiences of this literary genre are somewhat limited. I graduated from the childhood comic ‘Mandy’,
which focused on nasty bitchy little bullies getting their comeuppance to the
much cooler, “we’ll solve your problems” teen mag ‘Jackie’, where all
troublesome boyfriend and menstrual cycle issues were resolved in an instant and
eventually, like all girls at the time, progressed to the well–thumbed
‘Cosmopolitan’. This, of course, was the
sex education pamphlet for the grown ups, and, if the recent cover headline “Inside the Orgasm Club” is anything to
go by, remains so to this very day.
Had I been more organised, I would have brought along my
magazine of choice, such as ‘House Beautiful’, ‘Homes and Gardens’, ‘Ideal Home’…
Yes, I agree, most would say that when compared to
Cosmopolitan, these are about as dull as you can you get. I mean … who would not want to know how to have
twenty orgasms in the space of as many seconds?
And even if I was one of them, is it fitting that one should discover
such secrets whilst sitting patiently in the hairdresser’s chair? Admittedly, we all need to be distracted from
the ghoul staring back at us in the mirror while we wait for the dye to restore
our youth, but come on! Wouldn’t it be
more appropriate to be in a darkened room?
Alone, without the pressure to participate in the “where are you going
on holiday?” and “are you ready for Christmas?” conversations that punctuate
the pauses between the colour, cut and blow?
I mean, twenty orgasms? Twenty
seconds? A girl needs to concentrate!
As some younger, still optimistic hopeful has usually bagged
the tattered, ten-year old copy of ‘Cosmo’, I generally grab a handful of
whatever else is on offer and seek entertainment from within the now glossless
glossies.
Is there only me on this planet who has no idea who any of
these celebs are? Where have I been? What have I been doing? As I flick through page after page of faces
I’ve never seen and names I’ve never heard of I can’t bring myself to care
about their break-ups, marriages and babies, and can only wonder at how much
money it actually takes to put together such appalling outfits.
‘Hello’, or ‘OK’ might then invite me to have a little
wander around some European Royal’s palace or attend some footballer’s wedding or
even share in the birthday celebrations of our delightful little Prince. Sometimes I get to see the gowns worn by the
winners at the Oscars from films made only about six or seven years ago. You just can’t buy this excitement!
I would rather shove hairpins down my throat than open the
cover of the drivel whose headlines scream:
“My baby was born with two heads!”
and “Seventeen year old youth marries
Granny!”
On my last visit, despairing once again at my pathetic
preparation, I rummaged through the sorry-looking rag rack, hoping to get
lucky, and, hidden amongst the garbage, was a copy of ‘Woman and Home’. Only a year old. Not bad.
I’ll give it a go.
My exceedingly low expectations started to rise ever so
slightly as I found that I recognised and could name almost all the celebrities
featured within its pages. People whose
talent deems them worthy of the title.
People like Helen Mirren, Anne Reid, Meryl Streep.
Amongst the celebrities were inspiring tales of real women,
of love and loss, success, challenge and triumph, and an article encouraging
women to embrace and manage change that had me unexpectedly hooked from its
first line:
‘The certainty of misery is preferable
to the misery of uncertainty.’ (Virginia Satir, Psychologist)
- A quote that expresses perfectly why so many of us fear
change.
Of course this magazine is aimed at women who are 40 or 50+
and those who have some way to go before they reach their middle years will no
doubt dismiss it with the same derision that I fling at most of the mags in my
hairdresser’s rack.
But because its editors know exactly what they are doing,
and because I am firmly within its target audience, it had me entertained
throughout my colour, cut and blow-dry.
So much so, in fact, that I have now bought November’s issue
of ‘Woman and Home’ and on my next trip to the hairdresser’s I will be placing
it proudly on top of the rack in the hope that it might not only raise the
standards of the current collection, but also entertain someone like me, who scoffs
with intolerant exasperation at almost every mag on the market and who is so
ill-prepared that she fails to bring her own.
Well, unless I forget ….
