# 102 Through H-ELLE

British ELLE has long been a favourite. I like the mix of interesting writers from different disciplines (many of whom are of the self-made as opposed to the society stalwart mould, which seems to be the trend over at Conde Nast), the cultural scope (although I think Vogue takes a deeper, more dedicated and ultimately smarter stance on the arts), the fashion savvy (the best of the women’s mainstream consumer mags) and, of course, the many interesting, informative and backstage-peeking beauty pages.

Unfortunately, about six months ago, something appeared among the ELLE beauty pages that has had an erosive effect on my interest and, ultimately, on my consumer fidelity. I’ve been buying the magazine for five years. This year, I’ve bought it just three times. Why? Because I have developed a nagging, needling dislike for Avril Mair’s Beauty Extremist pages. I began reading in earnest and with interest and with raised brows as Mair went off on her own comparative brow shop, and thought the future of the features would hold something bright and challenging and valuable – a biting commentary on the increasing pressure for maturing women to look better than their biological age, perhaps, or an unwelcome spotlight on sectors of the beauty industry that had never been adequately explored by the mainstream media.

I am not one for character assassination – I don’t know Avril Mair, have never met her, know no one who knows her intimately – but as no more than a pair of eyes on a page, all I am witnessing is a single (rather vain) woman’s quest to indulge her narcissism alongside a burgeoning addiction. She is clearly obsessed, disturbingly so, and yet we’re told that every torturous new technique comes with the contract, and justifiable results. She has a thing for pain – if it hurts you know it’s working – or you could just have a bit of a problem that would be better off aired in the confines of a counsellor’s office than on the pages of a best-selling fashion magazine.

I’m struggling to see why ELLE’s editors thought it would make a worthy regular. If the message is: ‘women can all afford to look a lot better and we condone their decision to go through hell to get there,’ then, yes, that message is being read loud and clear. Except, it doesn’t ring true – and I don’t think the premise appeals to anyone. So, it isn’t glamorised (anyone scanning the sentences for references to bruising, burning, bleeding and bandaging would agree), but every piece is decorated with elitist, exclusive allure. And it’s the same appeal of drugs and danger and doing anything that you know isn’t doing your body any good, but which, well, you think makes you feel better and which you just can’t stop indulging in. Not yet. We’re reading about someone who is falling further towards addiction; seeing her lose sight of sense; watching as she tests the line between vain and insane.

We know she has a problem, but she hasn’t figured it out yet. And that’s why I can’t read it. I do not want to be complicit. I do not want to be part of this disturbing journey. In the most extreme sense, buying the magazine feels a bit like feeding Avril Mair’s addiction. I’d like the magazine a lot more if Beauty Extremist got cut. And something with soul took its place. Or is inner beauty revoltingly outmoded? I hope not.

But, then, it has me talking, doesn’t it (was that the point then?) ? To you and to my friends, all of us sat around a cafeteria table with the latest feature in front of us, having a good old rant:

It’s AGONY (CAPS courtesy of ELLE) – we’re told in the introductory copy to the latest instalment ‘Is less pain less gain?’ – but it gets RESULTS (ELLE CAPS once more).

GRIN AND BEAR IT, BECAUSE YOU’RE WORTH IT, is the subliminal message being pumped across the page. And it’s a message that my colleagues and I are just not able to swallow. Hours of rants and angry nods and shaking of fists and it was clear that something in the writing, the approach, the flippancy and au fait-ness of it all, was just plainly, horribly wrong. It left a bitter taste behind.

And we’re not talking about saving the world (I’m a beauty editor for Christ’s sake), or being erudite, eloquent or informed (although, it’s nice when these things are delivered by women’s glossies), but simply about serving readers a decent spirit, a good intention, something worthy and inspiring to read, with a bit of heart and guts and brain. And if it’s razor sharp so much the better; but to be packaged in a gruesome procedure that delivers nothing more extraordinary than a razor-sharp chin? No thanks.

And if nothing else, to steer clear of aggrandising a journey that is taken solely for vanity’s sake.

And, in my eyes, therefore taken entirely in vain.