Girl Talk: Nails, Beauty, Love

Orchid snapped in Singapore Botanical Gardens

As we all readjust to the here-and-now while not going stark raving bonkers and spending too much of the day cleaning the skirting boards, I’ve found the ongoing, liberty-dashing curse of the cloud-covid doth bringeth several silver linings. Number one, eldest daughter currently on post-graduate-pre-career-sabbatical in her childhood bedroom. Another woman in da house! So. Beauty product testing. And nails. And mummy daughter LOVE.

I usually have a gel manicure once a year. At a push, twice. I eek out these manicures until my pale nail-beds are sometimes six weeks long. But sweet Lily and I have become nail bar regulars. Three weekers. For any visitors to Queenstown, we totally recommend Amore Day Spa for the best nails. And better gossip. You want to know where to get the best Martini Espresso lakeside, just ask the petite proprietor, Hanna.

Since May? I’ve done. Lilac. Sapphire Blue. Lemon yellow. I’m currently British Racing green. Nek week, I’m going for gold. With sparkles. Shape-wise I’ve done square, round, almond and now my nails are long enough to try stiletto. Stabby. 

Lordy love-a-duck will you look at some of these!

For the uninitiated, I liken a gel manicure to getting a few coats of boom-colour- *Timbacryl on your nails, with a top-coat of polyurethane. Because the wondrous thing with gel is that it’s dry and dent-proof, the moment your hand is retracted from the mini, UV light, nail-baking machine. After a quick slosh on of cuticle oil and a mini hand massage, you’re ready to plunge your hand into your handbag and scrag around for your credit card and car keys. No worries. No damage. Despite having to get gel salon-removed (you can purchase a bottle of acetone and do it yourself) your manicure is not wrecked by the time you unlock your automobile and start it. 

Radically, the total sum of my social outings over the last six months, have included a 19^th Birthday and a 70^th  Birthday. I danced at both. I was a happy Cinderella dressed in rags. Favourite old rags. I don’t know about anyone else but spending my life as an at-home-hermit has forced buying clothes totally off my radar. Manis and beauty products are my current nemesis. They bring the joy of a quick fix. And you can enjoy them. At home. Alone. 

A gel mani costs $69 (inc $10 removal.) This does seem extravagant for permanent pretty hands. But that’s less than a $5 coffee a day over three weeks. I share a daily brew with The H. We discovered a handy local coffee roaster Steve during #lockdown, when my horse decided to hoof it down the drive and graze his front lawn. Now, when the acrid smell of burnt toast fills the Dalefield air we know it’s time to nip over for a refill.

I’ve been reading Marian Keyes’ ‘Making It Up As You Go Along’, a sort of memoir and collection of previously published columns. (How famous do you have to be before you can repackage your writing and resell it?!) Anyhoo, it’s laugh-out-loud, Irish humour funny. She’s cute. Five foot with size 35 feet. Super eccentric. She’s also a beauty potions sluzzer. Friend! She writes very candidly about being a slave to many of the female beauty larks of our time. Fake tans. Eyelash extensions. Lasering (she slathered her entire legs in Emla cream and wrapped them in GladWrap hours prior to treatment with a potentially catastrophic outcome.) Hairdressers. Skincare. Teeth. Nails!

On the subject of skincare … I did some overzealous aging-be-gone attempts with The Ordinary’s Ascorbic Acid 8% + Alpha Arbutus 2% serum and found myself in need of a calming, random red spot evaporating system. Dr Lewinn’s Recoverederm cleanser, toner and day cream for sensitive skin soon calmed the unsightly blotches on my cheeks. Dr L’s boasts Bio-Active Marine Algae and Cehami(R). This range is around $30 per product. I like the gel cleanser and cellular defense rich replenishing cream, but the aerosol-canned toner has a meh fragrance-free, fragrance. Would not buy again. 

For a refreshing spritz over the face in the morning, I love Antipodes Ananda Antioxidant Rich Toner. Its raspberry scent is divine. 

Waiting in the pharmacy yesterday, for some repeat prescriptions (as us young folk do!) Marian Keyes spoke to me, ‘Be the Janeys!’ (Irish lexicon for ‘an expression of astonishment') she said. And I found myself, eyes glistening, in front of the Dr Lewinn’s range. An enormous, red shelf-talker was talking to me - Instantly Plumps & Boosts Advanced Pearl technology Ultra R4 Plumping Gel. Soon my hand was prizing open the seal on the yet unused tester and I was anointing the back of my free hand, wrist and lower arm with the gloriously silky rich concoction within. I marvelled at the luxe texture of my freshly plumped and boosted skin. I shuddered when I checked the price. $84.95. Shite, I thought. (Gobshite might be more appropriate here.) My name. Jane. Was called over the aisles of temptations. I went to the counter, hoping I had a Living Reward’s $10 voucher owing. I didn’t. I skipped home with my new purchase. Twitching to try it. Result. I love it. It's so hydrating and smoov. Would work well as a makeup primer.

Meanwhile. Spring. If you’re planning to get your knees out soon I recommend you get scrubbing with this magic. Weleda – Birch Body Scrub. $16.72, 150 ml. With carnauba and beeswax pearls, and the zingy essential oils of grapefruit and cypress it exfoliates like a dream and stimulates circulation thus helping to purge all that cursed crinkly sourdough that’s crept in since April and is taking a nap under your arse shelf. Use once a week in the shower, massaging in circular motions, while dreaming up the next bonkbuster and bring on the ath-leisure-shorts. 

This scrub is best paired with Birch Cellulite Oil. $29.52, 100 ml. I have been massaging like a dervish those needy, knee to navel trouble spots, post-shower daily. Briefly, I must call out its scandalous name. It’s the sort of bottle one does not want guests to view amongst the Aesop handwash in one’s bathroom. I guess it’s better than Subcutaneous Fat Dissolver or Orange Peel Thigh Eraser. But who wants to be reminded of this. Female. Affliction. Cellulite. 

Moving on, I’m fine to smell like a citronella candle for a good cause. Ahem. Blended with wheat germ and jojoba oils it absorbs quickly. And after just three weeks of the Birch scrub/oil combo, daughter and I both believe. Winning. For me, the skin on ye olde sourdough is definitely looking more Bao bun. And the above-the-knee crepe looks finer. Roll on above-the-knee dress weather.

In celebration of the Spring Equinox, Weleda's current prices are 20% off. Available until 27/9/20. Sunday.

I love the whole biodynamic, organic philosophies of Weleda. I’d be filling cow horns with manure and burying them if I had access to some. I plan to visit their store, and gardens (if pos) when I’m in Havelock North this Xmas. Meanwhile, I’m ordering the Citrus Creamy Body Wash. $16.72, 200 ml. For darling daughter and I.  “Wake up, shower and add zest to your day … Gently cleanses your skin and makes you feel happy!” 

Why wouldn’t you? 

ps. I'm not a beautician. I'm not sponsored nor Insta famous. Opinions my own.

*Timbacryl is a long lasting exterior paint.

Aging & The Subtle Art of Giving A Lot of Phucks About It

I wrote a somewhat poignant line in a poem recently -

I prefer my hair turning white than paying into disguise

And I do. For the most part. I’m cool with being prematurely in silver-vixen-territory. But earlier this week, when a bank teller insisted to the point that I must have lost my marbles, along with the pigments from my hair that I was an old aged pensioner I wondered if it was time to hit the Clairol. I just couldn’t for the life of me think which colour would suit? Forever Blonde. Honey Honey Honey. Chesty Chestnut.

I forgave the poor child her mistake as she blushed and tried to back-track by saying that the qualifying age for a Super Gold card was 60. Only. I corrected her again. Thing is, to her it all added up. I hadn’t just breezed in with my freshly washed white hair after my injectables appointment. LOL. Oh no, I’d been stood at the counter for a cool ten minutes, trying to redeem my BonusBonds – the kiwi saving scheme for gambling addicts. Curiously I’d checked their website, I thought I knew what ID I needed. Clearly, I’d overlooked the third requisite. 

Anyhoo, there I was with my undone, white hair. My middle-aged face. My unknotted brow. It was an easy mistake for a young woman to make, (lack of general knowledge for a frontline job aside.) I would struggle to identify a twenty-five-year-old from a thirty-five-year-old in a line-up. But I’m 56, not 65. A cool, nine years of my life was obliterated right before my very eyes. Poof. All that lovely growing old, fast-forwarded in a puff of future-fairy-dust. I should add it was the previous customer, let's call her Brenda, who was the owner of the SuperGold Card. The teller had somehow flicked to her file.

My great grandmother, Mackie, had long white hair that she pinned into a donut-shaped-bun at the nape of her neck. She was 100. I’m not sure why my hair colour went west in my forties? The stress of having three children in my mid-thirties. 34. 36. 38. Perhaps. I recall my midwife, telling me that each one of them had given her grey hairs, and it wasn’t her birth canal they were stuck in at the time. 

My lovely friend Sue, texted me earlier this week, from the mall. She’d accompanied her daughter to her colour appointment. After four hours in the chair, daughter was not happy with the results. Four hours! That was one of the reasons I stopped colouring my hair. The money! The time! I would honestly be on the verge of a panic attack around the two-hour mark. Get me out of hair! It was such a relief to stop. 

I was asked to interview the wildly famous and fabulous UK Children’s Laureate author/illustrator, Lauren Child, soon after I took the au-natural-road. I had a moment beforehand. Well, quite a few moments actually. I thought I cannot interview the super gorgeous, super stylish Lauren Child while I’m growing out my hair. I. Need. Just. One. Last. Colour. One. 

During the interview, Lauren cutely asked me several questions. I’d been introduced to her the day before at Remarkables Primary, along with her UK publisher and PR assistant, Lozzle. Even so, when she said, “We were talking about your hair yesterday!” I laughed a startled laugh.

“You were? That’s so embarrassing. I stopped colouring it. I’m so white.” Then I leaned in and showed her my whitest locks. On my temples. OMG I still cannot believe I did that. “I kept ringing up salons to make an appointment but I couldn’t get in anywhere.”

Lauren said, “No, it’s lovely. It’s all the rage in the UK right now. To grow it out. It’s great.”

Mmmmm. Lauren’s blonde hair had subtle, baby pink highlights. “The key is putting the right amount in,” she told me. “It doesn't last long.”

Three years ago, only punks had pink hair. Not like nowadays when every rad gran you pass in PakNSave is rocking pink pastel, asymmetrical fringes and undercuts. But from that moment, I knew I’d dabble in a pinkaluscious-balayage-future. So I can’t tell you how thrilled I was when I discovered De Lorenzo Nova Fusion colour shampoos. $29.99. Salon only.

Believe me, I have tress-tested these babies and will happily pass on my knowledge. I do pretty much have a blank palette to start with, which helps as results depend on your base colour. But you can’t go too wrong. ** 

Jane says:

Beige Blonde - adds a certain blonde-creaminess and goldy highlights. My fave.

Rose Gold - adds soft, baby pink tones. You will be pink!

Coral Peach NEW - adds odd orange-pink tones. (I was so excited when I found this. But after several washes, I felt like a fruit salad. And when people told me things like my hair matched my shoes I was outta there right back to Beige Blonde. Don’t be fooled by the name. This colour would also tide you over between salon colours if you have blonde highlights. I believe.)

On this Hi-Ho-silver journey, I discovered a few Instagram feeds of women pushing the greying-gracefully mood. But most of them were ex-models with goddess-like cheekbones, soft-filtered tanned faces and thick, long luscious locks. And after reading how they maintained that youthful glow: “I brush myself with a stiff-bristled dry brush before showering, twice a day! I don’t touch red meat, sugar or alcohol.” This old cardholder left them to their namastes and their nettle tea.

(Parts of this post also appear on Stuff NZ. Bubbly brunettes wanting to enhance their greys might find Nadine Rubin Nathan's dye tips helpful.)

** Directions. Do a quick first wash. Towel dry. Apply a generous amount of shampoo. Go about the business of shaving your legs or dreaming up a new novel. (I still can’t get the image of naked writers coming up with their best ideas while wet 'n soapy. Melinda? Sue?) Anyhoo, leave the shampoo on for 5-10 mins. Rinse. Condition with Nova Fusion Colour Care conditioner. Next time you wash, repeat above to maintain colour. Or if you don’t like it, use normal shampoo to wash it out. I sometimes do a lucky-dye and mix the colours. 

ps. Three days later, my Bonusbonds savings have not been transferred. They say, Allow 10 days.

pps. I interviewed Lauren Child during the Auckland Writer’s Festival May 2017, for The Sapling

Author with Lauren Child. Photo by Lozzle

A (very) YA Fairytale - The Wolf & The Girl in the Red Hoodie


Once upon a time, there lived a wolf, a very strange wolf.


‘Look Mr Wolf, do you really expect me to hand over a muffin every Saturday. Just because you stand on two legs and bare your yellow fangs at me. You really need to use whitening toothpaste BTW,’ said Little Red Riding Hood. 

‘Give me one,’ said Mr Wolf. 


‘Nope.’ 


‘Give me a muffin.’ 


‘Doubt it.’ 


‘I’ll tear that awful red hoodie of yours if you don’t.’ 


‘What evs.’ 


‘I’ll bite you.’ 


‘I’ll bite you back! Well, I wouldn’t actually; I’d get a gob full of fur. You really need to brush yourself. Your fur coat is manky as.’ 


‘Look, I was kicked out of home as a young whelp. No one taught me to hunt. I’m starving. I live off nuts and berries and roots.’ 


‘How can you? You must have those things…wha da ya call em? Oh yeah - instincts. You’re a meat-eater.’ 


‘My meat-eating-gene must have mutated. I’m a vegetarian.’ 


‘Aww hun that really stuffs up this fairy tale doesn’t it. You don’t even want to eat me?’ 
‘Please Little-hood-red-riding.’ 


‘Doh. My name is Little-Red-Riding-Hood. Red for short.’ 


‘Red. Sorry. You’re right - I don’t want to eat you. But I’d KILL you just to get one of your muffins.’ 

The wolf sprang towards Red and knocked her flat to the ground. She lay there stunned for a moment, then she kicked and squirmed with all her might and eventually managed to crawl out from under the skinny wolf. 

Jumping to her feet, she shouted, ‘Totes inappropes, Mr Wolf.’ Before he could respond, she grabbed her basket of muffins, thankfully still intact, and ran off singing. ‘Jingle bells wolf-y smells, girly got away.’ 


Slowly, Mr Wolf, now hungry and humiliated, brushed leaf litter from his coat. At least he could follow his prey, even if he had no desire to eat it. With his tail between his legs and his nose close to the damp path, he tracked Red’s scent through the woods.  


Red was so happy she’d slipped the smelly Mr Wolf. He really ponged. The sun was peeking through the high tree canopy, dappling speckly light over the ground. Red began to pick bluebells beside the path. But the pretty flowers were sparsely dotted about and she soon found herself deep in the woods ... 

Problem! Her Dad (the local firewood supplier), told her never to go deep-into-the-woods. She sat down cross-legged beside a fern, and plucked a thin frond and tied it around her posy. Then she lay back and studied the filigree of branches making a beautiful paisley-ceiling above her. Very soon she dozed off. Bad move. Because guess who rocked up? 

The now starving Mr Wolf. While Red dozed he helped himself to a muffin. Red shuddered involuntarily. His smell was so wolf-y. So disgusting. But she hoped he’d be in a better mood after he’d eaten. She pretend-snored and kept her eyes shut. Mr Wolf gobbled down one muffin after another. Strands of drool and crumbs hung from his huge toothy jaws. Urghh. 

By and by, he let out an enormous wet belch. Then he flopped down beside Red. His stomach bulged. ‘Sorry Red,’ he mumbled, and hiccupped. ‘I’ve scoffed all the muffins. I was famished. They were delicious, BTW.’ 


‘Great!’ said Red, sitting up. ‘This isn’t the story of the big-fat-pig, you know. What am I going to take to Granny now?’ 

 
The wolf shrugged. 
‘I’m outta here.’ 
‘See ya. Same time, same place,’ said Mr Wolf, rubbing his tummy and licking his chops. 


‘In your dreams, fur-ball,’ muttered Red. She backtracked through the woods, and after a few wrong turns, finally arrived at Granny’s house. ‘Granny you won’t believe what happened.’ 


‘Try me,’ said Granny, peering into Red’s empty basket. 


Red told her story. 

‘A vegetarian wolf!’ said Granny, raising her eyebrows. ‘Now I know who’s been raiding my veggie patch. And I thought it was Peter Rabbit. Don’t panic, I have the perfect solution for bullies who help themselves to fresh goods.’ 

‘Not your …’ said Red. Granny nodded. 

 --- 

The following Saturday Red set off as usual through the woods, with her basket of freshly baked blueberry muffins. Only, the top layer of muffins contained Granny’s secret ingredient. 


‘Sup, Red?’ said Mr Wolf, suddenly appearing from behind a tall tree. A startled Red tried to act cool. 

‘Hey! You shouldn’t sneak up on people. And don’t try and be all young and hip. It’s tragic. Seriously.’ She added a squeaky laugh. 


‘Mmmm, my, my those muffins smell good! Blueberry?’ 


‘Yeah! With white chocolate buttons. Want one? Mr Sir Hungry Wolf?’ She took a muffin from the basket and holding it under her nose she took a deep breath. ‘Mmmm, here you go.’ 

‘What. Really,’ said Mr Wolf, suddenly hesitating. ‘I don’t have to follow you to your granny’s house and dress up in your granny’s nightie?’ said Mr Wolf. 


Ewwww. ‘Nope.’ 


‘I smell a rat.’ 


‘Why? Do my ears look big?’ 


‘No.’ 


‘Do my eyes look big?’ 


‘No bigger than usual.’ 


‘Does my mouth look big?’ 


‘Just pouty.’ 

‘Do you want a muffin or not?’ 


‘I still smell a rat.’ 


‘No, you don’t. You smell sweet chocolate fruit muffins. Come on, Mr Wolf, you know you want one.’ 

Red waved a warm muffin under his snout. A spider web of silvery strands of saliva now hung from his jagged jaw. His stomach howled. He ran his long pink tongue over his yellow fangs. Next thing, he chomped the muffin down whole. 


‘Here have another,’ said Red. ‘Knock yourself out. Have heaps.’ 

 Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. Soon all the six, special muffins were gone.
 The wolf rubbed his swollen tummy. ‘They’re very filling. I’m totally bloated. I’ll just lie down for a bit.’ He slumped onto a soft fern. 


‘Toodle-poodle, Mr Wolf. I’m off. See ya round. Not.’ Red skipped off down the path till she was out of sight, then she sprinted to Granny’s cottage. It wouldn’t take long for the special salts to take effect. ‘Jingle bells, wolf-y swells, girly ran away.’ 


The minute Red arrived, Granny asked, ‘Did he eat them?’  


‘Yep. All six of them.’ 
‘He’ll probably go Paleo after that.’

They both got the giggles and were soon rolling around on the rug holding their stomachs. Until a fantail flitted into the cottage and dipped and dived and chirped above them. Was the little bird warning them of trouble on its way? 


‘Oh dear, I hope we haven’t taken things too far?’ said Granny. 


Just then, Red’s dad appeared at the cottage door. ‘Did that pesky old wolf leave me a muffin for morning tea?’ he asked. 


‘Have you seen the wolf this morning?’ asked Granny. 
‘Yes. He was hopping from tree to tree like a wood-chopper with a missing toe,’ said Dad. 


‘That’s a relief,’ said Granny. 


Granny, Red and her dad were enjoying fresh mint tea and muffins on the porch when Mr Wolf appeared. 


‘I wouldn’t eat those if I were you,’ said Mr Wolf. ‘Gave me more than a stomach ache.’ Then the wolf’s yellow eyes flickered, and his stomach whined like ancient plumbing in a boarding school. He stared at Red. Then at granny (who might have been looking a little guilty.) 

Mr Wold continued, ‘Unless that was some kind of payback? It if was, I think we can call it quits now. I won’t ever be greedy again.’ His eyes glinted with what could only be - wolf-tears.  


‘Quits,’ said Granny and Red together. 


‘Hey, I have an idea,’ said Red. ‘How bout you drop the creepy stalking-in-the-woods act and be Granny’s guard-wolf. Someone’s been stealing her vegetables.’  


The following day, the old wolf took up residence in Granny’s woodshed. He dutifully guarded her garden day and night in exchange for vegetables (and the occasional veg frittata.) Mostly he looked forward to Red’s muffins on Saturdays. Some days, he took a stroll in the woods, but he made sure he never crept up on anyone, ever again. 

So strange as it may seem, Red, her Dad, Granny and Mr Wolf did all live happily ever after.

(This is a re-edited version of a story I submitted to the Goethe Institute, Wellington, back in 2013)