2 of 5

Write now Article Tools

What kind of look would you like today?

A cheery phone call interrupts the evening meal to inform me I have won a
glamour, photographic session in a London studio. Six weeks later, surrounded by dusty, fabric screens, a bubbly blonde in t-shirt and leggings announces she is my hair and make-up artist for the day. After comparing pots of caked cosmetic to the colour of my skin, she proceeds to wind sections of my hair around chunky, heated rollers. I relax into the chair and enjoy the experience of being pampered while the blonde chatters on about eye colours and lipstick.

"The make-up I am applying is unlike anything you would use yourself, it is special, photographic make-up which looks unnatural in daylight. This is why there are no mirrors for you to see yourself."
I glance across at a girl who has been "done". Her hair is curled, piled high and fluffed about her face. The make-up gives her a cold, sinister expression, like a wax mannequin which stares ahead, unsmiling through the glass of a fashion store window. Realising I probably look very like her, I am sorely tempted to peek at my handbag mirror, but resist. With stage one of my transformation complete, the make-up artist moves on to greet her next client. I sit back and survey my surroundings. The air is filled with hairspray and the smell of hot, electric rollers as a continual stream of women pass back and forth. Some are fresh from the bustle of London with bulging carrier bags and eager, excited expressions. Others sit quietly like me, waiting our turn. We watch as a variety of ages, shapes and sizes obediently pass along the conveyor belt of glamour photography, each responding to the same line of questioning;
"Do you ever wear your hair up?"
"What kind of look would you like today?
My make-up artist returns in a cloud of strong, heady perfume. With a beaming smile she announces they are ready for me on set. How very theatrical! My mind conjures up images of wide, bare rooms with glaring lights and white reflective umbrellas. Reality however, is a maze of black drapes where another t-shirt and leggings ushers me through to my allocated space. With a practised eye she examines my "outfits" and decides the order of wear.
Meanwhile, the photographer climbs and straddles footholds of varying height as I am manoeuvred into a suitable pose.
"Left foot forward, hands behind your back. Tilt your head to the left and look over your shoulder..."
I begin to feel a little

• 1
• 2
• next page >>

Add your voice

Know something about Memoirs: Beauty?
We want to hear your view. Write now!