A Bit of a Slapper

Theresa O'Hare

'What's so funny?' I ask my significant other person who is sat in front of the box and snorting with laughter.

'It's like polyfilla. They're pollyfilling the cracks on women's' faces now,' he hoots, pointing at the T.V.

I sit up and peer more closely at the screen.

A female in her early forties, skinny as a rake, is waving in the air, a long grey tube with a nozzle on the end. She's proclaiming its magical properties. After just a few applications, she promises, it will take ten years off my age by making my wrinkles disappear. A wonder cure made possible by modern science- collagen. There's a close up of her face and it is smooth as a new born babe. And I must say, my significant o.p. is right. It does look like a tube of polyfilla. What a great idea, I think.

I mentally take note the name of the magic potion.

'Will I be able to get it in my local chemist's or will I have to go all the way into town?' I wonder.

I feel the familiar buzz of excitement. A new cosmetic product. I can't wait to get my hands on it.

I don't make any excuses for wanting to give it a try because I'm no different from any other woman on this planet. We all love make-up of any kind but especially anything that might, even for a moment, halt the brutal march of time over our faces.

One of my cleverer friends told me once that the name 'Cosmetics' is from the Greek word 'cosmos' meaning order or arrangement. And that's all I want, a bit of order. To me, crow's feet are well out of order, even on a crow.

Why am I so worried about my looks? Who am I trying to impress? A man? The feminists amongst you may ask with a curl of the lip. Girl power, I hear you cry. It's the twenty first century. Surely we're past that?

But I belong to the sexy film star Sophia Loren school of thought.

'Sex appeal is fifty per cent what you got and fifty per cent what men think you've got,'

Anyway, if worrying about your looks was good enough for cave women- it's good enough for me. They slapped on the ochre at every opportunity and they couldn't just pop down to the shop for a tube.

I can just see myself in a previous existence, a cave woman, dressed up in my finest skunk or rabbit skins, all set to go out to do a bit of clubbing. I sit down by a lake to give myself a last once over.

'Aieeee! The feet of the crow.' I scream and rush back to my cave to plaster on an extra thick layer of the yellow ochre.

The ancient Egyptians were mad about the stuff, too. If I was living in ancient Egypt I'd be a regular, down the pyramids, at the local beauty parlour. I'd lie back while I was exfoliated and moisturised. I'd have my eyebrows tweezered and shaped, my eyes lined with kohl and shaded green. I'd have my skin dyed with henna, wear brilliant red nail polish and even coat my nipples with gold like the rest of them. Cleopatra didn't entrance Mark Anthony by chance. Those lashes were to die for.

Most people think of gold and untold treasure when they think of Tutankamen. But when they opened his tomb they didn't just find gold- they found something even more precious-a big pot of moisturiser. There was no way he was going into the afterlife with dry, flaky skin. The way to go, King Tut!

To tell you the truth, I wouldn't mind going a bit further than the collagen. I really fancy some cosmetic surgery. That's the modern way. A tummy tuck here, a bit of face lifting there and a touch of liposuction on my spreading buttocks, might just about do it for me. I'm reasonably happy with the nose but the lips could do with a bit of plumping up, too.

But that's a secret dream. That's for when I win the lottery.

So meanwhile, I'm off down the shops tomorrow. I won't tell my significant o.p. of course.

What's wrong with a bit of polyfilla, anyway?