As regular Glossers will know by now I am a bit of a ginge. I’ve got the ginge hair, the ginge moustache, the ginge eyelashes, the ginge leg hair and, yes, the ginge minge. Kind people might say that I am strawberry blonde, but the rest of the world basically knows that just means ginge. And along with the all the lovely ginge hair, as a ginger you also get very attractive things like pink skin, open pores, freckles, lines and more often than not nice things like eczema. In beauty terms being ginger is about as useful as a blow dry in a sand storm.
Over the years I have learnt to de-ginge myself. So I have spent the national debt of Greece on being blonde. The hours I have spent having my hair pulled through what looked like a giant perforated Dutch Cap, or being BacoFoiled like a Christmas turkey, don’t even bear thinking about. Neither do the amounts aloe vera I’ve slathered all over my burnt back as, yet again, I’ve failed to stay, Nicole Kidman-like, out of the sun.
So when it was suggested that I might pop down to my favourite London department store, Fenwick, and sample the bold-brow makeover at Blink ( www.blinkbrowbar.com ), I was excited if a little trepidatious. I mean, the full Groucho Marx appears a little odd, eccentric even on Coleen Rooney and all those other Scouse-browers – what the hell was it going to look like an freckled marmaladist like me?
Deepa, the girl with the lightning-speed thread and the thick black dye paste had me horizontal in a chair with cotton wool pads on my eyes before I could say: “Not too dark, please.” The whole process was speedy to say the least. Deepa painted on the dye, removed it with firm strokes and cotton wool and then went on to expertly shape my brows with some brusque painless twists of her thread. It was 10 minutes tops. She then handed me the mirror to inspect her handiwork close-up. Fortunately I was lying down. Otherwise I might have keeled over.
“Bold brow,” she proclaimed.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Very bold. Very bold indeed.”
There were two enormous black caterpillars snoozing in the middle of my forehead. My brows were so big and so bold and so huge, they actually belonged in a zoo.
“Here,” said Deepa, handing me a long brow pencil. “You can fill in the gaps when it begins to fade.”
“Thank you,” I smiled, as if that was EVER going to happen.
For the rest of the day I wondered around in a daze. I failed to recognise myself three times in a shop window, and once in the lift on my way to a meeting. My meeting, needless to say, failed to recognise me and then proceeded to snigger for a full 40 minutes. I have to say it is hard to negotiate with a couple of creatures on your face. But this was just the beginning. My dinner date laughed. My husband laughed. One of my children laughed, and the other one screamed.
Then, after a few days, the laughter stopped, the sniggering subsided and I got a few compliments. In fact, quite a few. A man tried to pick me in the streets and someone even whistled! And now I have to say I LOVE THEM bold brows. There’s something about having large defined, dark, eyebrows that really shapes the face. They make you look younger, and somehow more awake, more present, presentable even, which let’s face it, when you’re the wrong side of 40 and in need of a serious lie-down, is just what you want.
I now never leave the house without Deepa’s pencil and I shall most certainly be back. Although I might go a little less "bold" next time.