#58 Premature Resolution

Oh lordy it's happening again. First came the spring-cleaning (which began with the last spoonful of Xmas pud & cream being scraped into the dustbin), then came the wardrobe haulage (all unsuitable, unseasonable items are now zipped up in a John Lewis storage bag in the loft) and today, I waged war on the buckling shelves and burgeoning storage units in my study. There's something about the end of the year that sends me off into a bout of relentless navel gazing. I analyse my life, my home, my space, my skin. Then I start clearing out. Chucking bits of paper I've stashed safely all year, ripping apart magazines that have been stood in chronological order since time immemorial (otherwise known as the day I moved into my new flat) and sifting through boxes of beauty bumph that I've not yet had time to try, nor been able to offload on friends and family - trying to work out what on earth I'm supposed to do with it all. Here's an idea - if there is anyone out there who runs a legitimate charity and can make good use of unwanted, unused and unopened beauty products then please, drop me a line and fill me in on your proposal. Ta very much.

Whilst sifting - which took me the best part of 4 hours - I ended up with three distinct piles: The crap that no one would ever want; the stuff that I don't want, but someone else might love and the gems I'm saving for myself, just in case I ever manage to grow myself another face or five, and will thereby find good use for.

Tomorrow I shall regale you with the good stuff.
Tonight, I'll serve up the unsatisfactory:


CRAP TRAP
I have a mate who loves J-Lo's, Paris', Coleen's and Gwen's scents. There's nowt snobby about her - and she always sniffs it like it is. But Alex by OK! Magazine sent her running for the nearest door. Words used? Sweet, cloying, air-freshener, headache-inducing - like one's first sniff of an early 90s incarnation of Impulse. The bottle's about as classy as Jordan on the pull too. Wrinkle-inducing grimaces abound.

The mineral foundation revolution. Anyone would think skincare companies had found a cure for cancer with all the harping on that's been done about these curious pots of powder. The fact is, the vast majority of the mineral formulas out there are sadly lacking in purity. Many of them (including L'Oreal's True Match Mineral Foundation) contain one or more dodgy additions, such as Diazolidinyl Urea (a common irritant) and Bismuth Oxychloride (neither of which are found in nature), so the 'go to sleep in it, wake up with better skin' myth, is in most cases just that - MYTH. Be wary and always check the labels before parting with your hard-earned cash.

My other peeve is that I've not yet tried a mineral powder that looked great on my skin. I'll start by saying that I've never ever worn face powder - hey, if my nose shines, so be it - so I'm not used to seeing a veil of dust on the skin, which tends to gather around my eyebrows and cheeks, where I have a wee bit of peach fuzz. But at least with face powder you can get away with just a swish over the T-Zone, but if you choose a mineral powder foundation, you're supposed to be able to use it everywhere - under eyes, over spots, atop chins - and it's often marketed as being a foundation-and-concealer-in-one too. Problem is, wherever you put it and however well you blend, it's always partially VISIBLE, which as far as I'm concerned, is cardinal base sin #1.

There may be others in the future that I love - I've saved a couple of pots for new year dalliances - but for the timebeing, at this stumped-out, fag-end of 2007, they're in the NOT HOT POT... going, going, gone.

Misadventure #1

Working for a magazine is not glamorous. I’ve just vacated a building – HQ of one of the world’s largest publishing companies – that had dead mice in drawers and after-hours rodents rummaging through Ryvita boxes, Gucci gowns and Hermes handbags alike. Keeping my space clear and clean was an impossibility – just minutes after my daily desk-disinfection ritual (Dettol spray, antiseptic wipes, kitchen towels and tea tree oil), the post would arrive. Padded envelopes would split and yield lung-choking dust, bottles crushed in transit would leak and spray their contents and the paper mountain would grow yet again. But everyone loves Mr Postman and I’m no exception. On my left hand side, I’d keep a row of products that didn’t piss me off. That smelt good, felt good, looked good and were, well, good. But on my right hand side, in the bigger pile that would be dumped into the deepest drawer, were the disappointments. The sticky residues, lumpy textures, garish scents and vomit-inducing vanity projects…

In the left corner we have …
Bourjois Effet 3D Les Nudes Lipgloss. Because Bourjois know that a nude ought to have a hint of pink – or your kisser will look cadaverous.

Brown Earth Shea & Cocoa Butter Body Cream. We’re used to getting a heady, artificial sweetness from cocoa butter – a saccharine, treacly, buttery, choco-waft. This is nothing like it. It smells like Play-do. Really. But it cocoons the skin, keeps it springy and softens back-of-arm bumps like nothing else I’ve ever tried.

Benefit Creaseless Cream Shadow Liner in My Date’s My Brother. From the new, Love Your Look range, this delicate shimmering pink feels like it would melt off eyes within seconds. Then it sets and doesn’t budge all day. I just love it when things surprise me.


And in the right corner…
Danielle Steele Eau de Toilette. The first novelist to launch her own fragrance. Everything you need to know is encapsulated in the previous sentence.

Paris Hilton ‘Heiress’ Eau de Toilette. If I liked it, I would be the first to admit it. Part of me even wanted to like it – to go against the crowd and be the black sheep of scent sniffers. I happen to like a lot of unfashionable fragrances–some from The Body Shop, a cheap £5 bottle I bought from Boots when I was 13, rose bases and lavender notes all. I even love the fake-fresh smell of cheap deodorant and sometimes spray a bit extra in place of perfume. So in a bid to bypass the snobbery surrounding scent, I wanted to rave about this. But one spritz and I was decided. Awful, awful, awful. And like all really bad scents, it takes an age to dissipate when sprayed in the office. Eugh.

EXPLAIN YOURSELF…
I’ve found my perfect mascara match. A gorgeous, silky, rose-scented stick that leaves lashes tinted with a delicate gloss and luminous colour – I love it. The problem is, it’s made by Chantecaille and costs £29. TWENTY-NINE-POUNDS. The same amount as a Topshop summer dress, a pretty tasty dinner or a darn good face cream. I am neither rich nor mad, so once this dalliance has dried up, I have no choice but to end it and move onto a more stable, sustainable relationship.

WINK WINK…
Cult brand Körner will be launching a lip treatment later this year. The formula’s still being tweaked, but I’m betting this will be one lip-smacking and non-tacky tub of goodness.