It must have been the lighting. I leave bathroom in a mad
rush to ‘do’ Oxford street in one hour, coz that’s all I’ve got. Normally, I
avoid Oxford street like the plague, but I’m a corner away and Selfridges has
the largest ‘cosmetics hall’ in Europe, or so lonely Planet informs me.
As of late, I hardly bother to look in the mirror at all. I
seem to have graduated to that breed of man who shaves absentmindedly, on
automatic. Looking at one’s reflection, if at all, to focus on the zone in
progress: upper lip, side burn, chin etc, but missing the whole. Today rolling
my beanie (over half my face - I now reflect - which is bound to help in the
deeply lined forehead department), I
take in the gestalt. Hmmm..not bad, I smugly surmise, well for forty.
My gaze does a rapid triangle scan: empty bottle of ‘deep wrinkle corrector’, wrinkles around
eyes on reflected face (check- not bad as I was saying), clock. Scram!.
You see in Berlin I ‘discovered’ Shiseido (HOW is another
story) and thought I was sorted, doing my bit, insuring against old age,
gravity and squinting in the sun. Graduating from Body shop and Nivea to
L’Oreal, detour via homemade aroma therapeutics, then up the airport duty
free ladder to Clarins and Clinique (for men of course,
although apparently the ones for women are far superior, that’s why Liz Hurly's cricketer Hubby steals hers - info courtesy of useless twitter ‘quotes’ on
Metro Newspaper). Coached by my metro sexual city sophisticates , educated by
Men’s Health mag and intimidated by the cosmetic counter bullies, I now think
Shisieido is IT.
So wrong. Four items
on shopping list. Time limit. Immediate glitch. Stripes in window at Primemark,
which happens to be first shop I see as I get off bus. Now Primark + Oxford Street=
my idea of shopping hell. The smell of cheap, mass produced, about to disintegrate,
nylon and polyester always prevents me from crossing the threshold. Like the
rubber stink emanating from pound land. Hey, I’m no designer freak snob. I love
my second hand Oxfams and, bobble, musty, fusty, vintage dungeons like the next
(retro hung) man. I like a bargain….and when stripes are in the equation I’m a
gonner. I’m a stripeaholic fetishist. Striped socks, undies, bowties, t-shirts,
cardies, hats..whatever I just gotta have it. Dunno, maybe I was a zebra in a
past life. And striped t-shirts at 4 pounds when the one I passed over at
French Connection cost, like well, add a zero…Primark or not..paperclip on
nose, up the escalator I come.
Problemo…next stop is Selfridges. I have a Primark carton
shopping bag, the size of a suitcase in my hand. OOOh the agony. I said I
wasn’t a snob..but trying to walk nonchalantly down the gamut of Tom Ford,
Prada, Paul Smith and Gucci, each with bagged monogrammed mannequins..and
sentinel super snooty, glacial, wanna be model floor ‘assistants’..(assist my
ass), whilst trying to look loaded, ‘I belong here’ and pretending you’re not
holding a giant envelope of Primark advertising…well I tell you; your pride does not escape unscathed. Where the hell is Shiseido? (you can’t buy it
just anywhere, airports rarely stock it and you can’t find it –well I haven’t
tried looking hard enough- in Malta). Locate Japanese looking information desk
personnel. Think this might be a helpful starting point. I’m told try
Debenhams. No luck. I’m told try House of Fraser.
In the meantime have managed to check Marks and Sparks
exchange rate, buy intimacies at Boots, and take in the snippitest taster of
Selfridge’s food hall. I have never dared go there with leisure on my hands.
House of Fraser..it is like an arrow to bull’s-eye. I am on a mission..no bullshit,
I know exactly what I want. No I’m not interested in this promotion, no I don’t
want to know what would complement and what works ‘beeeeeeeeauuuuuuuuutifully’
(in Polish accent) with said product I want to buy.
All the while I have been conscious of one young man’s
attention hovering on me. Upon entering, upon dodging ‘Cartier and crystal
stalls’ and survey stallers. This man has been edging closer. He is in sharp
black suited, I’m savvy and street smart, perfume counter uniform, sports an
immaculately hair sprayed quiff like a question mark hovering there above his
chiseled countenance .
But the way he’s moving and zooming in, he could be
security, he could be a god-awful survey man. I lose him. Swoop upon
Shiseido..bingo!! mission accomplished. I buy.
45 pounds poorer but I’m in stock and it’s worth it and I’m
worth it (wrong brand advertising but well same ‘justification’). Or so I think. Ha ha.
As I’m leaving perfume counter man approaches me. “Excuse me
sir” he says severely. Suddenly I get the feeling something is wrong. It must
be my Primark bag. This guy thinks I’ve stolen the Shiseido. Because admittedly
I literally ran in and ran out like someone demented and well, on the run.
So I stand my ground
and turn round.
“Have you ever thought about doing something about your
eyes?”. “Whoaat!!, what’s wrong with them” I snap. You see at this point I’m
still thinking he is security. The guy
you is no airy fairy “I’m too wonderful to be in this store really” mascara queen. He is buff and his shoulders move in time
with his quiff. Then his tone softens.
A flash from the mirror reminds me I have a bloodshot eye.
The result of an insomniacal night fuelled by Maltesers , and spent reading an
entirely forgettable, detective novel entitled ‘Immoral’( the reason for its
selection) back to back and then still feeling wide awake and busy tailed uffa.
Back to story and will I ever get to the bleedin point. “
You see, we have a new product for the wrinkles under your eye, totally state of the art, instant improvement,
have you ever thought of doing something about them?”. Said in total, not put
you down, earnestly.
The remark/offer doesn’t register (immediately).
I’m happy for two reasons. Number one he is not security and
the Primark bag alert alarm has not gone off.
Secondly and more importantly for once I have a terrific,
genuine excuse -literally at hand- to avoid annoying sales spiel.
“ No that’s ok!”, “I triumphantly retort. “ They-my eyes-
are being taken care of”. I flash my unwrapped, appena purchased Shiesido at
him.
“Ha shiseido, hmmm”, he starts, not so buoyantly,
retreating.
I espy bus number 6
beyond the revolving doors, and I’m outta there.
Wait, did I imagine a smirk? Hey..what did he mean? Shit!
It hits me. Being taken care of. NOT! So apparently Not!. I mean this guy saw
me coming,..he noticed potential in need
of urgent face repair right across the shop friggin floor. Are my wrinkles THAT
obvious?. Now if that didn’t wipe the smug look of my face. I had to laugh.
What a waste of a lunch break..now maybe I should have waited around to find
more about the miracle product Mr Quiff was touting.
Shiseido in hand is quickly dumped into Primark bag. Not
feeling so worth it. Once back past the concierge, I make it to the lift and
scrutinise under eyes in lift. This lighting don’t lie..there they are…hope
this lift doesn’t have a camera..I mean this is big brother ville..these
grimaces I’m making don’t make me look cool..nor is it cool to see a guy
checkin out his wrinkles. A bit sad, a bit vain. A bit funny. Another box in me
life entitled not sorted.
