Growing Old Disgracefully

I may have blogged about this already, but every once in a while I have to vent my anger at the beauty industry. A billion dollar industry which takes aim at the desperate and gullible, and scores hit after hit.

OK. I'm not saying that I'm not above such expert marketing techniques. There have been days where I have woken up, taken a look in the mirror, and thought 'shit, where did that line come from?.....better get me a cream that will patch that little horror up'. But seriously, deep down I know that it's not gonna work.

So what sparked off this tirade I hear you ask? Why, the ad on TV this morning which was heralding the scrub that actively seeks out black heads and sweeps them away within 3 days! Yes folks, we now have intelligent creams which ask the 'hard questions', which do all the work for you. The ad was of course aimed at teenagers. Picture the girl, pretty as a button, prancing around, her world complete as she walks away blemish-free because of her blackhead scrub. Never mind that she has a lifetime ahead of her full of grief and taxes.

Takes me back to the ad, flogging a Ponds cream of some sort. It was based at 'The Ponds Institute', and had lots of beautiful women walking around in white labs coats with clipboards. Apparently, they had a cream which tackled the 'seven signs of aging'. Wow!!!! We have a cream that actively shuts my mouth as I start whinging like my father? I'll buy that! Wow!! A cream that replaces the worn joints in my body, stopping them from 'clicking' every time I wake in the morning. Here's my money - please take it and give me that goddam cream!!!!! A cream that has a serious chat with my digestive system, convincing it to allow my to eat copious amounts of garlic without the adverse reactions??? I'm there!!!!! How much? A million dollars a pot? Do you accept cheques?

Oh come on people! We all know the only way to avoid looking old is either:

Die young

or

Lead a life devoid of late nights, sun, alcohol, cigarettes, hard drugs, children....basically a life where we avoid fun (except for the children - they cant be fun).

That last sentence was a checklist for the last 20 years of my life (except for the hard drugs and children - though if I have children I will turn to hard drugs).

A couple of months ago saw Preston walk into The Body Shop, and ask for advice. I decided I wanted a foundation cream (for the unititiated - that's a flesh coloured base that is supposed to match your skin colour). The girl was nice. She was helpful. Here I was, sat down in a chair as she tested different bases to see which one matched my skin colour. I hadn't worn base for years. I can be quite lazy with make up. I'm very lazy with stuff like cleansing and toning my skin. I never remove makeup when I get home from a night out, often waking up resembling a racoon. After about 15 minutes and several different colour attempts, the girl suggested I was probably a blend.
Preston: 2What's a blend mean."
Girl: "You will need to blend two different colours to match your skin."
Preston: "Can you really see me doing that?"
Girl: "Hmmmmm"

We tried a few more and took the one that was best fit.

Yet that horrid blackhead advertisement guilted me into grabbing The Body Shop scrub that I bought the same time as the foundation (and have only used twice), and giving my face some treatment. It's safe to say that the scrub will return to its hiding place for another 6 months until I am subjected to some lowbrow advertisement which will prompt my inner-voice to berate me for my beauty routine apathy.