Beauty Skool

Skool Visit: Interview with Alexandra Oliver, Poet Superlative

2014-01-01T09:07:00.001-08:00

by Justine Brown

photo: Andie Petkus

Class, as part of our Back to Skool festivities we have a most worthy visitor, one of our best-known faculty members and rarest beauties, the poet Alexandra Oliver. Few can wield a pen so deftly. This marks the occasion of the publication of her splendid new book of poems, Meeting the Tormenters in Safeway (you will doubtless remember her last, Where the English Housewife Shines). She had just finished a barnstorming book tour of the United States and Canada when we met up with her. Read on for a glimpse into Alexandra's alluring world.

MRS. MILLER LAYS IT OUT TO HER
DAUGHTER AT THE AUDITION
MARCH 23, 1985

Know that your beauty is all that you have--
a luminous, numinous guide to the dark
to a world where the windows are fogged with desire--
a flash of the dagger, an interesting spark.

Nothing can stop what is smooth or burns bright.
Unhindered by fat or by bone or by rash
it soars like a satellite over the heads
Of women whose bloom has dissolved into ash.

And what of the book and the life of the mind
and hair that hangs loose by the cup and the lamp
and the scratch of a pen? That is for men.
And you, my slim cygnet, are not of that camp.

The other girls wait with their freckles and hands
full of flowers and notes. Their voices are real
but their friendship is not. They will use you for blood.
They will crumple you under their terrible wheel.

Hold on to your weapons, the spike and the tooth.
Go out there and slay them. The day will come soon
when you stand on the roof and it dawns on you there:
You are nothing, outshone by the unageing sun.

By Alexandra Oliver. Reprinted with permission from Meeting the Tormenters in Safeway
(Biblioasis, 2013)

JB: I was struck by the ferocity of the mother's advice in "Mrs. Miller Lays it out to her Daughter at the Audition, March 23, 1985", the martial language. Can you comment on this?

AO: As a teenager, I did a fair bit of theatre and I also modelled for a short time. I saw girls coming in with their mothers to auditions and go-sees. There always seemed to be a blurring of lines with regards to what the girls wanted vs. what the mothers wanted. Often you’d see the latter huddling with their progeny, conveying pearls of wisdom as to how the girls were to go into the next room and basically disembowel the competition. There seemed to be, with many of these women, a kind of transference going on, the transference of a sense of gynocentric mistrust and, at the root, personal inadequacy. Friends of mine who survived ballet and gymnastics saw pretty much the same thing. Even if you haven’t had your mother go at you in situations like these (relatively speaking, I was lucky), that atmosphere of antagonism haunts you. That’s where the poem came from. In writing it, I called upon a pastiche of moments rather than one particular incident.

I guess the poem is attempting to portray a multilayered conflict at work. I imagined one of those mothers behind the curtain, or in the green room, giving the daughter a final pep (poop) talk before pushing her out towards the footlights. On the one hand, the mother is (perhaps superficially) in league with the daughter, campaigning for her success at all costs. She encourages her to mistrust and reject female companionship in the service of coming out ahead. On the other hand, she’s chastising herself perhaps, for not having tried hard enough. When she talks about “the cup and the lamp” and the pen there’s this disdain for learning, seen by some as a more “masculine” pursuit, an obstacle to success as an object of desire. But perhaps she senses that intellectual pursuits would have completed her in some way and is both repelled by and attracted to the idea. I think the thing to keep in mind is that the poem is not necessarily about a mother and daughter, but the relationship between a girl/woman and the nightmare side of entrenched female culture (one has only to turn on reality TV or go on the Internet to see what we’re up against) or the warring sides of the female self…how we do battle with those ingrained damaging expectations. The final image—that of the “unageing sun”—is, I guess, meant to represent both the fact that time steals from everyone but also that the potential for growing in awareness and knowledge is always there.

JB: Does some of the fierceness derive from a sense that her (adolescent, presumably) daughter is displacing her in the beauty stakes?

AO: Oh definitely. I think that, in many mother-daughter dynamics, especially ones in which the mother puts a high premium on attractiveness and sexual currency, there’s the dichotomy of wanting to reinvent oneself through one’s offspring while, at the same time, proving that you’ve personally still got “it” and can’t possibly be dethroned—a reenactment of the Snow White vs. the Wicked Queen archetype. Things seem to be getting worse and worse these days, what with the propagation of the celebrity ‘ideal”--women being railroaded into seeking an aura of youth at all costs, but a media-sanctioned template of youth. Even the business of having kids is tied in with sexual attractiveness. You open a magazine and there’s all kinds of fanfare about hot pre and post-natal celebrity mothers, not to mention affiliated terms such as Yummy Mummy and (*shuddering*) MILF. I always wish I had a crossbow handy when I hear that one.

JB: What about the Tormenters? Do they represent a popular beauty ideal that the speaker has come to reject (after, perhaps, a period of coveting it)?

AO: Thinking back, I see a great floating cloud of feral flossy blondes…I remember that many of the girls I came into conflict with had that very Aryan variety of white-blonde hair, carved into Midwich Cuckoos pageboy helmets. They seemed to be a weird amalgam of applied femininity (Hello Kitty everything, pink, sticker collections, princess phones, frosted lip gloss, long, flapping white lashes) and brutal athleticism. They were either soccer players or field hockey players. Having dishwater blond hair and no skill for sport whatsoever, not to mention bad teeth and thick glasses, I stood out like a gourd in a petunia patch, and that led to bullying, real, nasty bullying--and in a girls’ school, too. Today, if anyone pontificates about the “safety” of private institutions over public ones, I just roll my eyes, because independent status is no guarantee that the misfits of this world are going to be protected. I think, to answer your question, I may have wanted to fit in at some point, just to make the bad stuff stop, but it wasn’t really in me. I think that the descriptors in the poem are just to add cinematic vividness to the proceedings; the poem’s not an indictment of the blonde mentality. Some of my best friends are blondes, as you well know.

JB: Yes indeed. Was being a Goth greatly consoling and/or protective from the powers that were when you were in high school at Crofton House?

Alexandra Oliver as adolescent vampire

AO: What appealed to me about Goth was the anachronistic element. I always felt out of my time, and I admit that I sometimes still do. Goth for me was partially about flowing clothes, mournful music, dramatic and elegant posturing and embracing the dark and subversive side of life, but there was also something poised and courtly about it that seemed very comforting. The Goth friends I had weren’t Crowley worshippers or slouchy, mumbling misanthropes. Yes, there was a certain celebration of doom and drama, but all of them had exquisite manners and wonderful vocabularies. I remember once, when I was about fifteen, coming home to find two college-aged male friends in Robert Smith hairdos, bow-necked blouses, tight breeches, riding boots and full makeup taking tea with my mum. This kind of thing made a nice counterpoint to the Amazonian super-permed norm that dominated the school hallways.

JB: Is assembling your look still performative?

AO: It became less performative after I had my son (case in point: I only wear heels if I know that a car will be involved in my plans) but, even if I’m just working at home or running errands, I always like to have something interesting going on, be it a large fluorite bead necklace, a voluminous skirt, a curious vintage scarf, an exciting hat or an Austrian hunting cape. I like to go about my daily business with some aroma of otherworldiness hovering in the air. Curating one’s look is the easiest visible way to do that.

JB: Is reading page poetry any less of a performance than appearing at a slam?

AO: No. If anything it has greater potential because you have to mediate between the audience and the book and make it lively. Sometimes, when you’re off-book, you tend to fall into stock performers “habits”--the same hand gestures, the same way of visually addressing the audience. You can find yourself going through the motions. When you have the book, the text is like a third element in the dialogue. It always tells you something you don’t know. I think, ironically, it permits a special kind of elasticity.

JB: When you "perform" or "read" poetry (take your pick), what role does your look play? Do you, for example, like to confound audience expectations? Do you see yourself as costumed?

AO: I don’t do costumes per se, but I like to dress up to read. Why not? It’s an occasion. I think it’s a way of honouring the room. The only time I’ve ever read in jeans was when I was at an outdoor festival in Washington state and my son was in a stroller and I had a nappy bag under one arm and a pile of books under the other. In my normal performing life, my rule of thumb is to try and be elegant but keep whatever outfit out of the province of costuming. I want the poems and their delivery to be the primary focus.

JB: Movie stars of today seem to have lost the sense of duty to be glamorous, appearing in sweats and the like and only getting (over) dressed up to appear at events like the Oscars. Can you comment on this?

AO: Can I have an aspirin and a cold cloth first? But to be fair, I think there are quite a few actors who have what I’ll term “the aura”. George Clooney has it, of course, and Kate Winslet is always pleasing to watch. The paragon for me is Helen Mirren. She is celestial in her beauty and dignity, and I can’t think of one picture where I’ve seen her in Uggs and yoga pants, carrying a Matcha Latte and walking a French bulldog.

JB: Do you see beauty rituals as powerful?

AO: I’ll preface my answer with a story, so bear with me. I remember back when I had just finished grad school and was starting to run out of money. I’d get regular trims at a hair school in Vancouver. One day, a helper from a care home brought in a large, pale lady in her fifties with thinning red hair. She was having the lot twisted into numerous tiny braids that stuck out all over her head. She told me that it was the only way she could pick up radio signals from her extra-terrestrial brethren throughout the cosmos. I think about that when I put myself together, not because I have extra-terrestrial brethren I need to keep in touch with, but because there’s always a style element, or assemblage of such, that makes you feel more like yourself, more able to cope. I have certain rules and regimens which make me feel a little bit more primed to go forth and conquer. Dispensing with all the trappings wouldn’t translate for me as empowerment. On the contrary, I’d feel bereft.

JB: Have you ever had a hairdo that will go down in infamy?

AO: 1984. I shaved my head and had one snaky blonde front tendril. There was some sort of red flying saucer thing in 1985. And two bad perms, one in 1982 and the other in 1991. What was I on? There are no pictures from these periods. I have destroyed them all.

JB: What item or items do you never leave the house without first applying?

AO: Moisturizer, a sweep of bronzer, concealer, tinted brow gel and red lipstick. Were the zombie apocalypse to erupt tomorrow, I wouldn’t change a thing.

JB: What are your five desert island beauty items?

AO: Right. Let me think:

1) Red lipstick
2) Rosehip oil
3) Lip balm
4) Concealer
5) A hairbrush.

JB: Who are your aesthetic heroines-- because of what they made, how they turned themselves out, or both?

AO: I have a stable of them but, for the sake of economy, let me list seven:

Isabella Andreini. She was an Italian 16th Century actress, poet and intellectual. She had great wit and charisma and the whole package was beautiful.

Edith Piaf: she was unconventional-looking, yes, but she was so unrelentingly passionate and fierce.

Eleanor Roosevelt for her moxie and the elegance of her soul.

Lee Miller: in addition to being Man Ray’s muse, she was a wonderful photographer in her own right. Even before she started doing her own thing, you can see from her eyes that she’s no cipher. Her intelligence, her innate knowingness, is all there.

Maeve Brennan: the Irish writer. She was so feisty and yet so exact in how she put herself together. She came to a bad end, unfortunately.

Dominique Sanda: the French actress. Great haunted quality. I love her in The Garden of the Finzi-Continis. She breaks hearts.

Solveig Donmartin: A German actress, fantastic. Long, wild hair and red lipstick. She was the trapeze girl in Wings of Desire. On screen she was so ethereal and melancholic, but in real life, she was always the last one to leave the party.

JB: What is on the horizon for you, Alexandra?

AO: Well, having just finished the ten-city tour, I’m sort of trying to get my land legs back. Launching a book feels a bit like what I imagine launching Voyager’s golden record must have felt like for all those scientists in white coats. You set something free and hope it will communicate something, have some kind of far-reaching effect. What next? Give more readings. Finish the next book. Make a poem into a short film. But for now, I think I’ll wash the day off, reach for the rosehip oil, slap on an eye mask and go to bed.

A Brief Sabbatical

2011-10-27T06:31:00.000-07:00

Hello class

Just a brief announcement to let you know that we are having some professional days for research and development. This might be a wise time to review the archive for exam purposes...

For Those About To Ink, We Salute You

2011-08-15T07:07:00.000-07:00

article and illustrations by Mrs Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

Ever popular Hawaiian lady

Good Day, Class. A few semesters ago, September 2010 to be exact, you will recall our discussion on body decor, specifically piercings. Today we’ll continue to cover this area with the tattoo. Has it ever been more popular or widely accepted? Your mom is out getting one right now. And middle America knows that it has the green light to ink up one side and down the other with ‘reality’ TV shows illustrating that the paint parlor is just another esthetics appointment in the day-planner. Akin to getting your hair and nails done, getting a new ‘tat’ is not out of the norm for a week’s end of pampering. But don’t get me wrong; tattoos are very special and the decision to have one can be a very significant event in one’s life.

Take for instance the first tattoo I came into contact with; it was on the arm of Popeye. Yes, I’m referring to Popeye the Sailor Man, the beloved cartoon character. My brother was the ecstatic recipient of a ‘life-size’ inflatable Popeye punching toy one Christmas morning. Hence, I got the day off. He sported an anchor on each steroidal-sized forearm, naturally. I didn’t think much of them. It was a Navy thing. I was about 4.

The next tattoo I saw was on a real life friend of my dad’s. It was an image of an exotic hula girl. He could make her wiggle by flexing his bicep and triceps muscles. I had a feeling this was a showstopper at the local pub where he assuredly drew the ladies. Talented, this fella, and maybe just a little creepy; I wasn’t all that impressed.

Aside from girlfriends’ names, the only other tattoos I was witness to were of the jailhouse variety sported by friends in my father’s motorcycle club. The homemade tattoo, traditionally in blackish blue ink, was often hard to decipher. Some looked as if they were a little hurried while others seemed abandoned altogether. Or maybe “Rosie forev” was intentional shorthand. Skulls, flames and crosses seemed to be the order of the day. The occasional teardrop was one to be wary of.

There weren’t too many kids adorned with ink in the early punk days, probably for the sole reason that most punks didn’t have the necessary funds. Eventually more and more tattoos surfaced. Many went for a comic approach with cartoon characters. Fred Flintstone with his “Yabba Dabba Fuck You” was a standout. Soon loyalty to favorite bands would influence tattoo choices--for example, the graphic black bars symbolizing Black Flag or the DK logo for the Dead Kennedys.

As the early1980s rockabilly revival scene grew so, too, did the number of tattoos. More hula girls and anthropomorphic cats with quiffs! And, of course, when hard-core punk and heavy metal rolled out like thunder, fellows lined up around the block at their local tattoo parlor for the toughest designs: again, skulls, flames and crosses. I guess if it ain’t broke...

But with the tattoo’s recent leap in popularity, encompassing wide demographics, we now see a more diverse and unique implementation in design. People have pushed far beyond the standard rose tattoo into new and exciting territory. But Skoolers, I have a few words of caution, so please, take these following tips in to consideration when you are about to take the plunge:

loyalty counts

Tip #1 When deciding whether or not to get a tattoo of the name of the Love of your Life, choose the girl or guy you will love forever wisely. This tattoo will let you discover just how long ‘forever’ really is. Consider tattooing your ‘one and only’ using the shortest version of their name as possible. For example, rather than inking in “Elizabeth”, why not go for “Liz”? That way if you break up you may still be able to find yourself a “Liza” or even “Eliza” down the road, rendering the tattoo pertinent. Remember, it’s easier to amend a “Sam” than a “Samantha”.

Tip #2 Don’t be preachy. Be careful with tattoos that are full of free advice, like the catchy phrase “Live fast die young”. Unless one is planning on checking out before their 30th birthday it could look a little hypocritical sporting that tattoo at the age of 70 over at the seniors’ shuffleboard showdown. And slogans telling us to “live free” in a fascist country’s text isn’t the best choice. Talk about rubbing it in. No one likes a Sanctimonious Sandy. Your tattoo should not be a bumper sticker for your body.

Tip #3 Keep the text to a minimum. Some folks load up on too much information-- for instance, by tattooing the whole left side of the body with a favorite passage from the New Testament. That’s all well and fine, but keep in mind you may be spoiling the story for those that haven’t yet read the book.

Tip #4 “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” These words are all too familiar. When is the best time to get a tattoo? After many, many drinks, obviously. First of all, it won’t hurt as much. Plus, you will have obliterated any reservations about the appropriateness of the tattoo, leaving you open to a world of choices. Perhaps renew your feelings for a first love by putting the name of an old flame over your heart. Even if they are now married to someone else, they will still feel honored.

And you can’t go wrong with good ol’ “Mom” or “Dad” – unless it turns out that you were disinherited.

Tip #5 Research your Sanskrit and verify it with a master. You never know what sort of sense of humour the local tattoo artist may have. You might think your fancy lettering says “Avoid evil, practice good”...only to find out it really translates as, “we’re having a two for one sale at Ed’s Inkery.”

Aside from these five basic tips you need to ask yourself this: what’s the message you’re posting permanently on your body? Further, what part of your body is displaying the message? I need to question the positioning of the tattoo on the small of one’s back. It can’t possibly be for the owner’s amusement but rather in consideration of the person assisting the tattooed one while down on all fours to, say, find that contact lens that just popped out. Or perhaps as an accompaniment to the uber classy thong straps rising up from the crevice they are inevitably wedged into. A tattoo of a phoenix might work well here. And keep in mind, Skoolers, when choosing your symbolic skin adornment: a little something called ‘collagen’ and it’s effect on skin’s elasticity, not to mention gravity. What may have started out as a fresh and lovely new rose tattoo, (in homage to the Damned song, of course), may become wilted or shriveled by the time you hit age 75. It is for this reason that one rarely sees a tattoo of a bowl of fruit.

One of the benefits of the tattoo as a form of expression is that it affords effortless communication. It alerts others to the tattooed parties’ interests, viewpoints and hobbies. Various youth group, motorbike enthusiast and Satanic logos allow an onlooker to get an idea of that person’s favorite pastimes and decide if they might be compatible. The tattoo is a sort of shorthand conversation starter in a society that has become shut off from directly interacting with strangers, with the exception of ‘friending’ a friend of a friend of a friend on Facebook. Pretty handy, I’d say.

too normal even for Jim Rose

But with its vast popularity, has the tattoo lost its edge? It is now so widely accepted and assimilated into society that its shock value has ceased to exist, which is kind of sad. Even that fully tattooed guy, Enigma, from Jim Rose’s Circus got fired for looking too normal. And these days people are using their renting out their skin space as human billboards to pay the rent. Is nothing sacred? The tattoo, once a counter-culture demonstration of expression now finds itself in the form of commercial logos on skin pimped out by giant corporations. The rebel yell reduced to a skin tag-line.

Advertising is in your blood

And while I have no tattoos of my own it speaks not to the fact that I am against them, but more to my lack of decisiveness and inability to commit. My problem is I’m afraid of becoming bored with having to look at the same image for the rest of my days. I worry about the potential of a poor ink job or worse, misspelled words. I don’t relish the idea of having to constantly explain it away to strangers I’ve inadvertently been silently communicating with. No, I think I’m better off sticking to the temporary tattoo until I discover that one thing that can really get under my skin – and stay there.

These Are the Girls: Part One: Ginger vs. Mary-Ann

2011-06-24T12:29:00.000-07:00

article and illustrations by Mrs Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

Gilligan, Ginger and all the rest

It’s no secret that I received my early childhood education primarily from 1960s television. Oh sure, there were the extraneous interruptions, like having to attend a few hours of public school, but as soon as I returned home it was straight downstairs and straight to business. I clocked in to work and headed to the rec. room, (which I recently learned isn’t meant to be spelled ‘wreck room’), to tune in, turn on, and drop out, sans the LSD.

I loved the fact that kindergarten started early in the morning and ended by noon. This gave me plenty of time to engage in my more critical curriculum: my favorite afternoon shows, in particular the gothic cult hit Dark Shadows. When you are five years old, there’s nothing more frightening than watching a good old-fashioned vampire drama alone in your dark, dreary basement where a freaky cellar and other nooks and crannies are bursting with horrific paranormal denizens. I sat paralyzed with fear, knowing that if I tried to run upstairs to the safety of the kitchen before the end of the show I would somehow be punished, either by Barnabus Collins or my mom for my self-inflicted daytime terror.

Barnabus Collins himself

When I felt I could safely make a break for it, I tore up the steps like my pants were on fire. I could sense a bony, gnarled hand was mere inches from grasping my ankles and dragging me to the depths of a snake-filled hell, every time. Gasping for air I tried to cover up my panic by insisting it was time for a milk and cookies break. And really, it was. And then back to work. Refueled with sugar I safely returned to my ‘study den’. While kids were getting kudos for memorizing the times table in arithmetic I should have been awarded at least four gold stars and a ribbon for committing the entire TV schedule to memory. After a few game shows, like Truth or Consequences and What’s My Line, (yes, there was a time when I wanted to change my name to Kitty Carlisle, who didn’t), it was finally time to settle in for some serious television: Gilligan’s Island. This show was ultimately made for a five-year-old such as myself. It had all the key ingredients necessary to babysit me for a good half-hour. What more could a mom ask for?

The castaways were a complete family, with the exception of responsible parental figures. I could relate to this on some level. There were rich grandparents (the Howells), a lovable uncle, (the Skipper) and the choice of the Professor or Gilligan as potential love interest. And while the Professor was brainy, if I had to make a decision I would opt for real estate. It was, after all, called Gilligan’s Island. Lastly, the ladies, the older sisters, who would contribute to my impressionable mind and warp it into the gem it is now.

As far as my young, spongy brain could determine, there were two types of women in the world: the Gingers and the Mary-Anns. Ginger, of course, was a second-rate Marilyn Monroe and a genius with the make-up kit. Fabulous winged eyeliner and a beauty mark that never smudged. Unfortunately her reasoning skills were somewhat subpar, rivaling those of a tennis racquet. Even I rolled my eyes when she’d contribute suggestions on how to get off the island based on plots from movies she starred in. I pondered the dilemma of being beautiful yet unable to consistently grasp the obvious. Mind you, she had enough foresight to bring along more than enough make-up for a three-hour cruise. That counts for something.

Desert island essentials

Then there’s Mary-Ann, a down-to-earth country girl with a spunky spirit. She sported a wholesome fresh-faced look. Sassy in her own right, but not really thinking ahead in terms of her appearance. The pigtails, reminiscent of Dorothy in Oz, symbolized a naïveté, which contrasted perfectly with Ginger’s more experienced femme fatale quality. But did I really want my role model to live in a state of arrested development? No, I would strive for a more sophisticated look, hers was too country bumpkin heavy.

Mary-Ann still has it at 80

And what of the love dynamics? Sure, both girls had their eye on the Professor, but his head was so buried in dry logic that his ability to sense their flirting was nonexistent. Ginger wasn’t going to stoop for Gilligan or the Skipper, so that only left Mr. Howell, if she could just edge Lovie out of the way. But Lovie was a pretty tough broad under all that Tilley Endurables ladies sportswear. And she would have had no problem getting down and dirty to fight for her man if push came to shove. As for Gilligan, if he ever grew some testosterone, it would seem that Mary-Ann was the logical choice. She was closer in his age range and they were undoubtedly both virgins -- so they had that in common. The only snag might have been convincing the Skipper that it was time to let go of his ‘little buddy’.

I didn’t have to make my decision any time soon as to who I would model my feminine prowess after when I became a young lady, but I started weighing out the pros and cons. For all of Mary Ann’s fun-loving attributes, it was Ginger who tipped the scales ever so slightly with her knowledge of the benefits of a mud bath while being stranded (spoiler alert!) indefinitely on a deserted island. She was the ultimate Survivor. And I’m sure that once she ran out of the make-up she brought she would eventually (with the help of the Professor) figure out how to manufacture facial scrub and moisturizer from the indigenous habitat. Perhaps she would grind up oyster shells for highlighter and squeeze out some concentrated berry juice for lip stain and blush. Her eyeliner might be a concoction of plant oils and charcoal from the campfire.

Meanwhile, poor Mary-Ann would be relegated to a corner of the island fashioning little gingham romper sets and aprons out of old picnic tablecloths for herself while sewing lavish gowns for Ginger from Mrs. Howell’s satin drapes. Her perky spirit slowly fading with each passing sunset as her eyes strain while she struggles to reattach some errant sequins on Ginger’s best dress. No, this will not be my destiny. I choose the life of Ginger, the movie star!

I reach for another cookie and swig of milk feeling satisfied that I have chosen the right role model. Unwittingly, I have secured the value of a beauty mark and somewhat unconsciously I will apply that precious nugget in my teens for a glamorous nightclubbing look in the punk scene.

So many television shows and so many ladies would influence my style sense over the next several seasons. We’ll have to wrap it up for today’s class, but next time I’ll discuss the kooky yet extremely fashionable Ann Marie, aka That Girl. Her hairdo defied gravity with its perfect pipeline flip. Also, Wilma versus Betty, which one are you? We’ll continue to explore iconic TV Girls from the Sixties. Stay tuned!

Style Pirate: Designer Collaborations Rule O.K.

2011-05-21T11:02:00.000-07:00

John Galliano

by Mrs. Justine Brown

Picture this-- John Galliano perched in his Arizona detox, surrounded by a cluster of rogue P.R. agents determined to somehow benefit from the designer's thoroughly-understandable exclusion from fashion circles worldwide. How can he possibly redeem himself after the series of poisonous outbursts that will have him brought up on charges in France? It's clearly a case of too little too late, but the ex-Dior designer may have hit on a way to make up for his bile a bit: he is set to design a Beatles-themed collection for ASDA, the British big-box shopping experience (a bit like Wal-Mart). Having just ordered Biba founder Barbara Hulanicki's latest collection for ASDA myself, I can attest happily to the success of the one the things that makes style-hunting so fun these days.

Ms. "Biba" Hulanicki

Designers making cheap clothes for the masses-- it's hard to resist. The style world is full of such winning combinations lately. For example, attentive Skoolkids may remember the swoon Mrs. Brown fell into in December, when H and M issued a collection designed by the delightful Israeli, now residing in Paris, Alber Elbaz of Lanvin. After a tense week spent in the virtual aisles of the Swedish superstore, I finally emerged triumphant with TWO cocktail dresses, one black and dramatic with puffy yet tight sleeves, the other resembling a dark purple tulip-- with one bare shoulder. I fear I'm not doing the dress justice through words. Pictures may be preferable. Suffice to say that this dress had its own Facebook following.

Another august example is the collaboration between TK Maxx, a cut-rate designer paradise (albeit a paradise with hellish greenish florescent lighting--- makes the skin look, well, "bad" doesn't quite cover it, speaking from personal experience) and Liberty. Now, in London-towne, just the mention of a Liberty scarf can send ladies' temperatures through the roof. Liberty is is department store dating back to the turn of the last century, and its headquarters are to be found in a huge mock-Tudor pile on Carnaby Street. There's a rich tradition there that can be traced back to William Morris and his Art Nouveau theories. Anyway, silk, weavers, sartorial idealism-- it didn't work out quite the way Morris planned, but, to sum it all up, TK Maxx got together with the Comic Relief charity and Liberty to produce a silk scarf with all the trimmings for 12 pounds 95 pence. Yes! That's about 5% of the regular retail price.

While I'm singing the praises of TK Maxx and Comic Relief, I may as well add that they also worked with Vivienne Westwood to produce a series of t-shirts featuring Rowan Atkinson and Miranda Richardson in their time-honoured roles as Lord Blackadder and Queen Elizabeth I. And I am pleased to report that the scarf and the t-shirts now have pride of place in my closet.

In honour of Britain's Queen of Style

And no report on this theme would be complete without a celebratory reference to the winning combination of Jil Sander and Uniqlo, the planet-wide Japanese sartorial phenomenon-- the German designer who rose to fame in the 1990s dressing everyone in minimalist black suits. For reasons too dull to go into, Jil Sander is no longer allowed to use her own name. The label still active, but others lie behind it. The result is +J, the distinct line designed by the actual woman and retailed in Uniqlo. So hurrah! We win again-- designer threads at manageable prices.

So by all means explore these opportunities, dear readers, but beware-- those online baskets can get full hair-raisingly fast. Personally, I limit myself to one treat a month. But that's just me, Skoolkids-- you may have more control over your credit cards.

The Joey Ramone Interview

2011-04-13T09:24:00.000-07:00

article and illustration by Mrs Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

In honor of the upcoming 10th anniversary of Joey Ramone’s death, April 15th, 2001, I decided to channel Mr. Ramone (nee Jeff Hyman) from the Rock ‘n’ Roll crypt the other night. I wanted to get his take on what inspired his look and how he feels about what the kids are wearing today. He was good enough to spend some time chatting with me. (At least, I think it was the Joey Ramone). What follows is a portion of the interview.

Beauty Skool: Hi Joey, it’s great to have you show up, even if in an
amorphous state, and take the time out from your busy after-life.

Joey Ramone: Yeah, sure.

BSK: I’m a huge fan and I know I’m not out of line when I say that the
Skoolers are just as thrilled to have you spend some time with us today. First, how are you keeping and what’s that whole dead business really like?

JR: I’m okay-- it’s a lot quieter, not as many gigs, and I guess I’m a tad more relaxed.

BSK: Well that is good to hear. I understand there was a little band conflict as the years went by.

JR: Yeah, but now with most of us settled in for a long dirt nap things have mellowed. Jury’s still out on Dee Dee though.

BSK: No doubt. So, nine inch nails aside, let’s get down to brass tacks. The Ramones: style icons! Your whole look, as a group, was definitive. You were the fashion vanguard for a generation of kids and then some. In fact, jeans ripped at the knees originated from you guys in the 1970s and really exploded on to the scene. By the mid 1980s every Guns N’ Roses maniac was slashing furiously at their Levis. What was the brain-child behind that
rough and tumble feature?

JR: I was born with razor blades for kneecaps and nature took its course.

BSK: Wow! You were a pioneer in the whole distressed denim devolution.

Mr. Joey Ramone, Esq.

JR: I never really thought about it that much.

[Garbled sounds surface from the background and another voice makes its way through]

JM: Hey, Joey, you wanna hear my new poem? I just finished it.

BSK: Who is that?

JR: It’s Jim Morrison.

Jim Morrison: Hey, Joey, who’re ya talkin’ to?

JR: Not now, Jim, I’m being interviewed by Beauty Skool Girls.

JM: Girls?

JR: Just ignore him. You were saying?

BSK: Well... is that really...? Okay, right, and I think the skinny pant really elongates the leg nicely, rendering an enviable and elegantly lean look.

JR: Pant? I wore a whole pair.

BSK: Was there ever a time that you, Joey Ramone, wore a wide-legged jean?

JR: Are you looking for a fight?

JM: I wore flares all the time-- the chicks dug ‘em. Hey, can I read you my new poem?

JR: Yeah, not now, King Snake.

JM: “Incense brewed darkly...”

JR: You already wrote that, man. That guy is always trying to read me his poetry.

JM: You wanna talk pants? How about my black leather trousers?

BSK: True.

JR: I think Elvis beat you on that one. Look, Lizard King, why don’t you go find a nice rock to sun yourself on, okay? I’m being interviewed.

BSK: Let’s move on. Let’s talk about your penchant for stripy tee shirts.

JR: Yeah I like ‘em-- they’re cool.

BSK: But the striped shirt isn’t for everyone.

JR: Depends on the width of the stripe.

BSK: Too true. The striped shirt has a rich history of being worn through quite a few decades. Great artists like Picasso were fond of this bold look.

JR: And mimes.

JM: Don’t forget pirates, man.

BSK: Would you agree that the horizontal striped tee is a statement against the traditional vertical striped shirt favored by the majority of the business establishment? For example,the beatnik versus the banker?

[More muffled voices surface and interrupt our interview]

“Hello, hello, hello-- how low...”

BSK: That sounds like...is it?

JR: Yeah, it’s that guy from Seattle.

Kurt Cobain: Hello, I have to weigh in here and agree on the striped tee shirt. One of my favorite shirts, thin or wide striped, it doesn’t matter.

JR: Aw, come on, what’s going on here? This is my interview!

KC: Okay, alright, nevermind.

BSK: Hey! Wait! Kurt, did Courtney...?

JR: He’s gone.

BSK: Oh, well. Now let’s talk about something that is very close to my heart. Footwear. What’s the story behind all the Converse sneakers?

JR: Just a classic runner. Comfortable, unassuming, we aren’t into flash. They’re just cool.

BSK: I’ll say. They are just as popular today. So let’s move way up north to talk about the hair. Aside from your own locks, it seems the other Ramones favored bangs and some had a sort of overgrown bowl cut that worked remarkably well when you guys played on stage.

JR: Yah, mine was a bit too thick and unruly to get that same movement. The main objective is to keep a lot of hair in and around your face. Long bangs can be your best friend. They conveniently shield you from offensive everyday occurrences, like invasive people.

BSK: I hear you.

JR: Good hair and a pair of shades will take you far-- or at least get you out the door to get some errands run...What?

[A soft voice wafts through]

BSK: Is that Kurt? Is he back?

JR: No, it’s that mopey Ian Curtis, he’s been hanging around here for quite a while.

Ian Curtis: Sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to say that I agree with Mr. Ramone about the sunglasses. Whether one’s wearing informal clobber or a smart suit-- the addition of a cool pair of shades completes the look.

BSK: Well, Mr. Curtis, you always were a snappy dresser-- no casual Fridays for you. It was all nicely pressed shirts and slacks.

IC: It’s just what I feel comfortable wearing.

JR: Shirts and slacks? Really? Were they wash ‘n’ wear?

IC: Are you taking the piss?

BSK: Well, Joey, they weren’t a pretentious shirt and slack combo. More of a relaxed everyday post-mod look, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Curtis?

IC: Laid-back, I suppose. I’m going for a nap.

BSK: Fair enough, thanks for weighing in. Joey, are you still there?

JR: Yeah, but it’s hard to get a word in with all these other guys lingering around.

BSK: I had no idea-- let’s get one more question in before Bon Scott shows up. What do you think of some of the trends happening these days, particularly with men’s fashion?

JR: Well, I find the whole baggy pants/ass crack thing quite amusing, although I suppose the volume of denim comes in handy for shoplifting. The whole oversized clothing trend is a little unclear. And I’m not really sure why guys wear baseball caps so often. I guess things will eventually cycle back to our look in another ten years or so.

BSK: Well, I sure hope so. Joey, it was great speaking with you. If kids today had even half of the style that you and the rest of the Ramones exhibited the world would be a much cooler place. Thanks so much for your contribution.

JR: No sweat.

BSK: Thanks very much for chatting with us today. Oh and if you happen to see an old friend of ours, Dimwit, would you do us a favor and say ‘hi’ to him from the girls at Beauty Skool?

JR: Yeah, sure thing.

Magic, Men and Makeup

2011-04-04T01:38:00.000-07:00

by Mrs. Justine Brown

Mrs Brown gives instruction

Or magic-men and makeup. Geddit? Class! Wake up! Pop quiz alert. Are men even stylish at all? Yes, that was the question. Men. Makeup. Fashion. Do the three add up to equal Style?

The correct answer is yes. If you answered no, please read the following essay very carefully. The rest off you can have the afternoon off. No, just kiddin.' Get back in your seats. I mean that, darn it!

Sometimes we ladies are so glamorous and fabulous and all-round great that we don't notice the menfolk. We notice them noticing us, we notice them noticing us noticing them noticing us, but we don't... remark upon the fact that they themselves are quite stylish, indeed knowledgeable about style. (Yes, I know it doesn't apply to all of them, but neither does it... oh 'whatever'.)

So for your delectation and edification, I have brought a few examples along with me today. I wish they were real, but our budget doesn't extend that far. I have to rely mainly on experience, observation, lots of reading... and the Internet. I'm thinking of three examples of males: an individual (like A.A. Gill, who writes so cunningly for the Sunday Times Style Section when they have their yearly Men's Issue), the mysterious Sapeurs of Africa , and men who use kohl. The rest will have to wait their turn.

Let us begin with the familiar: kohl. We know something of kohl, that powerful black substance from whence sprang mascara, eyeliner and shadow. This substance is spooky sexy: dab some on at night and go out. Then pass out with your kohl on and wake up looking fabulous in a louche sort of way. Some people, like Anita Pallenberg, haven't removed their eye makeup for decades, and I wear they still look fascinating. Keith Richards too. Not young and fresh, but then Keith has always looked, even as a child, very wise. (By the way, when Keith and Anita parted ways, it is my theory that Keith left their home with his guitars and a pot of kohl, which he then presented to his future wife, the wholesome freckled model Patti Hansen. It's a bit like Rod Stewart and his ever-present bottle of bleach. All his wives are blondes, even the current one, though she started out in the public eye with Rod as a brunette. That lasted about one week.) (Oh, and ROCK STARS, are you listening? 'Hope I Die Before I Get Old' is not a helpful anthem. 'Hot for Teacher', on the other hand, now there's a tune worth rallying round.) (Silence...)

Fetching in kohl

Men who use kohl-- well, maybe not all of you are in familiar territory here. It depends on your menfolk, mostly, and it just so happens that a lot of mine favoured that eroto-haunted look. Speaking of territory, up and down the crags and deserts of Afghanistan you will find men in kohl-- in fact, throughout the Middle East nearly everyone wears the stuff, even babies, and they have done so for thousands of years. Dark and shady kohl is an ancient potion believed to ward off the evil eye. It also deflects the desert sun. Finally, it's alluring. Some of the most striking photos to come out of the latest Afghan wars... it seems that the nascent Afghan police force includes a lot of fey and flirtacious young men with roses in their Ak-47s and bedroom eyes enhanced by kohl.

Let's move on to a more exclusive group, the Sapeurs, or Society for People of Elegance and Ambiance. Here's a club I am desperate to join, and they won't have me (it's men only). Now, the Sapeurs are mainly from Africa. They worship style. Literally. They are incredibly sharp dressers, and they have made a cult-- again, literally-- out of fashion. To confirm this, just look at these handy illustrations. (Struggles with overhead projector.) Plus, they don't consider it an insult to be viewed this way. Quite the opposite is true, though I can't speak for their loved ones on this matter. All I know is that the Sapeurs are gorgeous dressers who put the rest of us in the shade and make us look pretty dowdy.


A member of Les Sapeurs

These extraordinarily spiffy guys mostly hail from the Congo, formerly a colony of Belgium, and there is a strong Belgian influence in their style. They are said to regard Brussels as their fashion Mecca, and dream of making pilgrimage there. And many do make that trip of a lifetime, going straight from airport to tailor. As many of you know, Brussels has been giving Paris some stiff competition in the fashion stakes over the last twenty or so years, and many Belgian designers have made inroads into the French capital with a view to fashion world domination. The name Olivier Theyskens comes to mind: the pale, fragile, black-haired and attired Goth type became style director at Nina Ricci and is now poised to dominate Fashiontown, U.S.A.

Mr. Olivier Theyskens

The Sapeurs may pay homage to Brussels style, but they have no time for its stark palette of black, white and greige. They like their beautifully tailored suits in the boldest colours and combinations conjureable. Hot pink with acid yellow, turquoise with orange; that sort of thing. Watch-chains, crisp handkerchiefs, gloves and shoes magicked through polish to perfection.

Which brings me to my last exhibit, Mr. A.A. Gill, London writer and general dandy-about-town. Lucky Mr. Gill recently wrote an article about tweed, wool, and Savile Row tailoring. The Sunday Times had the budget to let him design his own tweed (which you can do on an I-Pad), order a huge bolt of it, and have the tailor run a three-piece suit up specially for him. You can't get much more bespoke than that. Mr. Gill added a hat and now can't be separated from his suit; I think he sleeps in it. (This picture doesn't feature the tweed, but gives you a feel for his style.)

Now, to return to my original question. Are men concerned with style? I think we have answered that arithmetic. The answer is three. Perfect. Class dismissed! (Sounds of stampede toward the door.)

A. A. Gill checks his look

A Lipstick Killers' Valentine

2011-02-13T06:50:00.000-08:00

article and illustration by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

the ineffably glam New York Dolls

Lipstick. It’s transformative and essential. It’s also our topic for this Valentine’s Day at the Skool.

The overwhelming selection of shade, texture, and opacity are enough to make your head spin and your lips chap. The joy of cracking open a new tube is unparalleled. As you twist up the stick, it shines and winks at you. But it’s not until you’ve swiped on a coat and surveyed the application that you are convinced you and your new shade are compatible.

Do you remember your first, Skoolers? Not your mom’s natural looking frosty pale “Plutonium Pink” you covertly tested in the bathroom, or your dead grandma’s shade of “Tepid Flesh”, lovingly willed to you. Or cast-offs from your aunts, like “Vivid Livid Liver”, or “Colour Me Coli form”, with the ends are all rounded off-- impossible to contour one’s lips with, unless you’re going for a Ringling Brothers look. Or worse, it’s disappointingly worn down to just the inside edge of the tube -- only accessible by Q-tip. No, I’m talking about your very own handpicked lipstick, the color relevant to the year you were living in.

Prior to any sort of access to lipstick I admit that I resorted to the Smarties collection. That’s right. Wet two or three red Smarties and apply to lips. Discard Smarties by eating. Reapply as needed, usually every four to five minutes. For special occasions-- or if you’re feeling like taking a walk on the wild side-- try the purple or brown ones.

One of my earliest contacts with real lipstick involved my brother, his pal Clayton, and a bright white garage. At an age when you are first learning how to spell, say six or seven, you want to let the world know just how skilled you are. And there's no better way to spread the word than to commandeer your mom’s favorite coral lipstick, “Slammin’ Salmon” I think it was called, head across the lane to your neighbor’s freshly painted garage and attempt to spell the work ‘fuck’ in the largest lettering possible. (Take note, Skoolers: I was forming pre-punk expressive tendencies!) The fact that the garage was clearly visible from our kitchen window was hard to ignore, as was our neighbors’ disapproval. This did not dissuade me from pursuing my exploration of the Tao of lipstick. However, I now seem to have an aversion to all orangey shades.

Now, Skoolers, you may be asking “Mrs. Thirlwell-Nicol, yawn, what’s this got to do with Punk Rock?” Well, settle down and stop sniffing that nail polish remover, Avril, and I’ll tell you.

Does lipstick hold an esteemed position in the music scene? I would answer that by asking, “how could it not”? Lipstick, like rock’n’roll, pushed the boundaries of society’s love affair with conformity. In the olden days the forerunners of lip colour were primarily those living on the fringes, like actors and prostitutes. Even into the 1940s and 50s a bright red lipstick could colour one promiscuous. Demure soft pink lipstick-wearing singers such as the Lennon sisters contrast dramatically with, say, the Shangri-Las and their rebellious ruby shades.

Now let’s skip over the 1960s (and all that white lipstick which only looks fabulous if you are willing to keep your mouth shut) to the early 1970s. This brings us to the predecessors of punk and the emergence of the lovingly crafted trash glam look. One band that stands out is the New York Dolls. But where would they have been if not for lipstick? And, okay, boas, sequins and platforms. I’m not saying that the New York Dolls were the mavens of male make-up in the rock arena. In fact, I’ll bet Little Richard could have taught them a thing or two. However, they did have their way with lipstick. Which begs the question: would David Johannsen’s pleas in the song "Looking For a Kiss" be heard if he hadn’t been all dolled up, complete with a scorching shade of lipstick? Furthermore, would bare-lipped Dolls singing about much-desired kisses have still caught the attention of one Malcolm McLaren? Who, in turn, absconded with their outrageous style and attitude, and then swiftly outfitted and thrust his Sex Pistols on to the stage. The Pistols, having bathed in global glory for their nasty uniqueness, showed their gratitude to the Dolls by recording the song “New York”. The song, anti-homage, makes fun of the Dolls’ look, need to find a kiss and, okay, their penchant for various ‘medications’.

The Sex Pistols: cream of the crop

Now Skoolers, if you’ll turn to page 104 in your “Lexicon of Legendary Lyrics” textbook you will see that the first line of the song “New York”, written by Mr. Lydon, reads: “An imitation from New York”. What?? Hold the phone! There must be some mistake. Wasn’t Johnny singing “An invitation from New York”? And I’ll be (a member of the) Damned if it didn’t warm my heart on a hot-plate to have thought that the Dolls had extended a brotherly welcome to the Pistols, inviting them to jump the pond and perhaps play some gigs together. Hmm. Not so. It turns out Rotten was actually singing “an imitation from New York”-- which really isn’t very sporting, is it? Sure, maybe they rebuked the Dolls make-up aesthetic, but that’s no reason to get overly snotty.

It wasn’t too long before Johnny Thunders would have something to say about all this. His retaliation was neatly encapsulated in the song “London Boys”. While not exactly a chart-topper, it did include a few choice phrases like “you poor little puppet” in reference to Rotten dangling from McLaren’s orchestrated strings. Now Skoolers, don’t get me wrong-- I am not trying to create a case for who was the most punk rockiest first. Anyway, the Dolls pre-dated punk. They inspired a ‘do your own thing’ ethic and McLaren brought that sensibility back to London and found some lads with some seriously bad manners to fulfill his vision.

It would seem, however, that all had been forgiven, especially considering that Steve Jones and Paul Cook actually joined Thunders in the recording of "London Boys". Oh, except for some incriminating evidence that surfaced. That’s right class-- the real reason for all those musical missives was found stuffed in the depths of an old sock drawer after McLaren’s demise. Yes, these letters could possibly have been the inspiration that ignited this legendary melodious melodrama. Here are a few excerpts from some rather nasty back and forth telegrams between the boys. Valentines these are not.

Sweet Johnny Rotten

Letter dated January 10^th 1977

Dear Mr. Rotten,

My bass player, Arthur ‘Killer’ Kane, was taking stock of his make up kit this morning and noticed that his Max Factor #2 is missing. He feels that one of the members of your band may have ‘borrowed’ it to cover up a few blemishes. Please return it promptly as we have a show in the next few days and Arthur refuses to play without it.

Sincerely,

David J.

__________________

Response from Rotten dated January 30^th 1977

Dear David,

Go fuck yourself. Just because both our bass players share the same sickly complexion doesn’t mean Sid nicked it. Besides, Sid wouldn’t wear make up. He may try to drink it or shoot it, but he don’t wear it.

Up yours,

Rotten

P.S. Sid says Johnny Thunders stole one of Nancy’s best lippys, “Sugar-smacked” I think it’s called. She wants it back or else.

____________________

Response from the Dolls camp dated February 14^th 1977

Happy Valentine’s Day Boys,

You’re all so special to us in so many ways. Thunders is completely devastated to hear that you think he would pinch Spungeon’s lipstick--considering the number of sores she’s usually sporting.

By the way, Steve Jones can keep the eyeliner he borrowed from Thunders, as well as the stage presence.

Lovingly,

David

___________________

As you can see, Skoolers, things got more than a little salty and the accusations flew. It was a veritable compact powder dust-up! Fortunately for us, the songs exist as a reminder of the influence of make-up and its often times gritty and provocative effect. They are important historical insights, the equivalent of hieroglyphic storytelling.

No one is really sure if everyone kissed and made up. Or if anyone returned anyone’s make up. And even though you can’t put your arms around a memory, the songs and the lipstick killers live on.

Smurf Day Approacheth

2011-02-06T21:31:00.000-08:00

the enigmatic Smurfette

When we last left our heroine, she had undergone several weeks of preparation for the Obagi Blue Peel (see "The Blue Peel Letters"). This involves using a number of products, chiefly a bleaching cream, generic Retin-A and plenty of sunscreen.

Dear Miss X,

I know that you have been anxious on my behalf, so allow me to reassure you. In spite of the nurse's kindly warnings, week four of the elaborate treatment was not after all an inferno of peeling, pain and redness. Curiously, this fact seemed to cause the angel at my bedside some consternation. However, I swore upon my honour that I had been using the products as directed, and this seemed to console her.

My skin is a pleasure to me now! I scarcely recall the dark days when I would awaken early and flee to my closet to mask myself before my husband awoke. The mirror is no longer an instrument of torture to me; in fact, I blush to say it, I am in danger of spending too much time before the glass admiring my skin, for it is free of dark spots and blemishes alike. Rather, it is white and smooth, as are my hands. I confess that I contravene my nurse's orders and use the preparations on my hands as well-- I do not seem to be in danger of running out of the costly cream and unguents as she warned, and it is such a blessed relief to see the few annoying spots of my hands vanish as though they never were.

Aubrey Beardsley illustrates Vanity at the Vanity Table

I must guard against Vanity. Equally I must guard against a slight sense of Anger, for I believe that these creams would have been enough to achieve the effect I desired without resort to the Blue Peel, and the nurse did not apprise me of this possibility. However, I have only myself to blame, for no person, no highwayman, took my money by force. Furthermore, I anticipate "Smurf Day", as they have christened it for reasons that remain obscure to me, with considerable excitement.

Affectionately yours,

A Lady

Dearest Mrs X,

I confess that, writing some weeks later, I am full of fears once more! Having consulted with a physician Friend, I am nearly resolved to propose a compromise-- surely they will not force their Peel upon me. The creams and unguents continue to prove miraculous, and I would not part with them for virtually anything. Can the doctor perhaps give me more of these in lieu of the Blue Peel?

My head whirls, and I fear I must to my couch.

Yours in confusion,

A Lady

I Don't Wanna Be Your Downward Dog

2011-01-06T20:54:00.000-08:00

Article and illustrations by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

Mr. Pop demonstrates

Good afternoon Skoolers,

Today I’ve called an emergency assembly. We have yet to cover a
topic which, while rather foreign to the punk lifestyle, still has a place in the realm of beauty and thus, the Skool.That subject is fitness.

Now I realize that our Skool is not about to set foot into ‘jock
nifty’ territory, especially when, historically, we had ironically
met our fitness goals by routinely running from packs of said
nifties. You also wouldn’t find too many of us on the swim team,
the tennis circuit or training in track and field. No, our forms of
exercise in the punk days consisted of scaling chain link fences
to escape the authorities, marching in protest parades, diving
off stages at gigs and, of course, the constant cardio blasts from
pogoing in the mosh pit. The latter was our own version of being
on the high school wrestling team.

Gym class was exponentially brutal as the years went by. I never
considered this period to be fun and games. For me Phys Ed
was really just unwarranted punishment between classes. It was
uncomfortable, superfluous and offered no qualitative benefits. Not
seeing a need to be competitive in the wide world of elementary
school sports I became quite skilled at playing on the sidelines.
I dodged dodge ball entirely; being struck in the head by a thick,
heavy sphere of rubber was in no way appealing. The grass hockey
team meant chronically bruised shins and a lot of running up and
down a field hoping for a lunch bell to ring. And running track
was for hamsters; it winded and bored me simultaneously. I did
not experience the so-called ‘runner’s high’. Believe me, if I had I
would have been setting records.

As for group sports, nothing says ‘ready, set, gotta go’ like waiting
to be picked for a team. Ten excruciating minutes of standing
with one’s peers feeling like the Jello salad at Frank Baker’s
smorgasbord while captains Stacy and Mandy choose their
dream team is no way to spend one’s youth. My head is running
a commentary on their selections: ‘Oh man, you’ve got to be
kidding. Really? Her? Okay, seriously, Margaret? This is bullshit
man, that spaz Maureen? ...her? ...wha? ...her?... fine pick Nancy,
I hope she can throw more than just a hissy fit...huh...her?...yup,
okay Wendy, whatever...hey, finally. Not too shabby, second to
last-- I beat out the scoliosis chick!’

As you can see class, my sports stats are less than stellar. But this
didn’t stop me from finding some form of exercise I could live
with. It would be outside of the standard practices of traditional
ladylike sports. I entered the renegade world of skateboarding. The
most valuable thing about this new activity is that it never felt like
exercise. Finally, I had found something that I enjoyed. But that’s a
discussion for another day.

Now, back to the reason for this emergency assembly: fitness, sure.
Staying in shape is important, yep, however, more importantly:
fitness attire. I have never really had an issue with what one
chooses to wear when working out. It used to be all Sporty Spice
Adidas-style nylon or cotton sweat pants, and if one can keep it to
the parks and gyms that’s all well and good. However, currently
this is simply not the case. Somewhere along the track those
sweatpants were swapped out for the rampant and nondiscretionary
wearing of yoga pants. Yes, yoga pants. How did they happen?
Where did they come from and why do women insist on wearing
them? Everywhere.

I’m no stranger to yoga. My mother, determined to find an activity
for me one summer, signed me up for a beginner’s Hatha yoga
class at the local community centre when I was eleven, (after I was
deemed too klutzy for gymnastics and too chunky for ballet). I was
told to wear very loose clothing-- that’s LOOSE CLOTHING all
you spray-on-spandex-loving Sun Salutationers-- preferably draw
string pants and a comfy tee shirt. I wore pajama bottoms and
my ‘War is not healthy for children and other living things’ tee.

The classes were strange and quite the opposite of calming. I never
seemed to please the patchouli-infused yoga instructor and she
made a point of letting me know it. I think her name was
Moonbeam or Sunshine. As I twisted myself into some skewed
position and waited for Moonshine’s appraisal I listened to her
encouraging the other members in the class: “That’s lovely, Sheila,
yes just extend that arm a little more.” When Sunbeam arrived at
my self-styled sculpture there was no gentle critique. She just
started to yank my limbs around like I was Gumby. Ow! “There,
now hold that till I come back,” she barked. (She hates kids, was
my first thought). When Starshine returned ten minutes later she
asked, “Why aren’t you doing the Half Cow?” “ It hurts," I
replied. “But you're just lying there, what pose is this?” she
demanded. “The Plank,” I said.

Now nearly forty years since my introduction to all things pretzel-
like, someone, most likely not a yogi master, has instituted
some sort of yoga by-law: the wearing of stretchy, link sausage-
inducing pants with matching yoga bra tops. But just because the
fabric ‘breathes’ doesn’t make it all right. Apparently this clobber
should be decorated with arbitrarily placed dashes of bright pink or
purple or blue. This is so you can safely match with your yoga mat.
Here we have the necessary outfit to propel us on our road (heavily
trampled) to enlightenment. And if you really want to reach an
enviable level of Nirvana you’ll make sure it has that trademark
logo on the gear, letting everyone know it is of the highest spiritual
quality (that money can buy).

This, for me, is not on. What started out as a means to physical
wellbeing and a way to achieve a sense of peace and tranquility has
morphed into a fancy version of “does my ass look good in these
pants?” And what’s up with the cropped yet flared pant leg? Is the
flare really necessary? Do one’s calves really expand that much
when doing the Warrior pose? I can’t take it. I really can’t. And
what is it about Sundays? You can’t really tell me that every
woman spends the whole Sunday doing yoga and that stretchy
yoga pants are the only ‘must have/go to’ piece to be worn that
day. Oh and please, add insult to injury by sporting a big old pair
of chunky trainers to go with. Hey now you’re set for a stylish
Sunday vegan brunch and a walk along the Seawall with 3,000 of
your contemporaries. Just don’t forget your baseball cap with
protruding ponytail. It’s like a flash mob down there. It’s as if
everyone tweeted the night before, agreed to put on yoga pants and
head to the seawall. Any minute the Black-Eyed Peas are going to
show up. They’ll perform a version of “I’ve Got a Feelin’ with
sitars and tiny cymbals. The LuLu Lemon girls will synchronize all
their Kundalini moves. They’ll be whipping out their color-
coordinated yoga mats, tossing around their foam bricks (for the
less flexible-- pffft-- losers), and pulling on their long Vinyasa
bright pink leg warmers ‘cause it gets chilly in those hot yoga
rooms. Besides, they look so cute. Remember the cuter the outfit
the closer to Vishnu! And don’t forget to rehydrate using your
standard issue “Om” stainless steel water bottle. It has to be
an “Om”. Om or go home, I say. Afterwards, everyone will pop
into their favorite all-natural health food restaurant for a $30 dollar
bowl of steaming hot organic lentils and fair trade kale and quinoa
salad.

So, if you’ve missed the break out yoga flash mob on the sea wall,
don’t lose any meditation time over it. Just head to your nearest
Bikram franchise and join in on some steaming hot fun. It’s sort
of like Sweatin’ to the Oldies, 2010 style. Get there early because,
really, everyone will be fighting for the front row in anticipation of
the Downward Dog.

Just Call me Cruella

2010-12-26T23:12:00.000-08:00

courtesy Disney

by Mistress Justine Brown

They've pushed me too far this time. Who? The government. The British government to be precise, who have just announced that cigarettes can no longer be branded. They outlawed smoking in pubs a while back, and soon no doubt they'll outlaw drinking in pubs as well, for our own good. I blame them-- why not, everybody else does-- and their battalions of finger-waving nannies. I blame them for the state I'm in. (Now there's a nice pun.) And lucky I've got someone to blame for this, 'cause it's pretty darn ludicrous to have to reveal just how very affected I am, and how far I will go in my efforts to look cool. I'm as bad as a teenager. Worse. Yesterday I bought a tin of cigarillos and a cigarette holder. Even had a little puff. My New Near's resolution is to start smoking at last. How ridiculous can one eminently stylish, rakish, devil-may-care gal be?

Kate Moss. Take that, nanny state!

In one fell swoop I have crossed the line from tobacco contrarian to smoker (that's all it takes, a couple of puffs and voila!). Yes, for years I have been annoying people with my controversialist ideas on smoking. I get that it's unhealthy; we all do by now. I just don't get why smoking seems to be the one thing that the general public considers to be undeniably sinful. All kinds of foul stuff gets a free pass, but smoking, now there's some serious evil for you. A lot of people seem to really enjoy policing their neighbours. Did you know that the health authorities have outlawed the final cigarette? Yep. Some states practise execution, as we all know. Nowadays, the prisoner can't get a last smoke before he gets the rope, needle or electric chair, not even if the guards take him into the fresh air. Smoking is bad for his health. It could kill him!

I could go on. And on. I've never been a smoker, though all my punk rock friends were. My bedroom looked like a misty moor thanks to them. I know what a smoking habit looks, smells, and tastes like. I used to go hunting for butts in the snow with one particularly desperate friend. We knew all the tricks: hit the bus stops first, for example. So it wasn't hard to resist the cancer sticks. However, those of you who know me have likely heard of my plan to start smoking at sixty. Basically, it was going to be a consolation prize. Okay, I would be wrinkled and raddled, but at least I could distract myself and others with swanky tobacco tricks. But by then, I reasoned, I might have to score my smokes on the black market while the rest of you were buying weed at 7-11. It's looking more and more like I was right: smoking the peace pipe is going to be illegal in pretty short order. That's why I've decided to start now instead.

So I'm stocking up on paraphernalia. I bought my cigarillos at a tobacconist's den near Victoria Station. There were uniformed schoolkids in there buying candy, no doubt lured in by the increasing chic of smoking-- a sense of the forbidden intensified in no small part by the latest edict from on high. The other customer was a plushly dressed business dude, clearly a cigar man. "Hey," I asked brightly, "do you know something about tobacco?"

"Not as much as that gentleman over there does," he replied, indicating the shopkeeper.

"A friend of mine introduced me to pipe tobacco once," I reminisced. "It tasted fantastic. But I don't want to look like Gandalf. I'm looking for a cigarette that actually tastes good."

The fellow allowed as how he didn't smoke cigarettes ("Neither do I!"), but he figured cigarillos would suit a lady. Plus you're not even supposed to inhale them. The shopkeeper showed me a few options. I chose a slim little tin and a properly flamboyant holder. We conversed a bit about his future prospects, which look dim. Every time he opens the paper there's some new bit of bad news for war criminals like himself. A soft-spoken fellow from Pakistan, he looked rather flattened.

Anyway, now I've got my gear. I'm especially pleased with the holder. Now that winter's come and the air is clear, cold and frosty, I can irritate folk by waving it around and generally making like an old hand without even involving tobacco at all. I'll just whip out my holder, take a drag of oxygen, and blow. The temperature will do the rest. I’ll breathe air rings around ‘em. Anyone who wants to duke it out with me over this issue can do it the old-fashioned way. Meet me on Wandsworth Common at dawn. We’ll settle this in a clash of cigarette holders. If you don’t own one, a pencil will do, or perhaps a plastic straw.

Not cool, just stupid? The merest of mindgames? We’re like that, we smokers, with our nasty little toys, our noxious fumes, our fictional scenarios conjured up out of the ether. We like to imagine that we’re wicked. How childish. Just call me Cruella, Cruella de Vil.

The Ultimate Skool Uniform

2010-12-26T09:40:00.000-08:00

.... from Mistress Brown's point of view, at any rate! We conclude our Skool Advent Calendar with another hard-won little black dress from the Lanvin for H and M collection-- of which more shortly. (The Browns are recovering from a wonderful meal and an epic trek across frozen and Tube-stricken London.) Meanwhile, a marvelous twelve days of Christmas to all of you from Beauty Skool.

Skool Uniform: Paper Debbie Dolls

2010-12-25T04:26:00.000-08:00

As a Christmas gift to our loyal Skoolers, we are putting Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol's gorgeous Debbie Harry paper dolls into a permanent exhibition. Our Skool Uniform LBD Advent Calendar is nearly complete: stay tuned for one more little black dress with a special festive flourish! Take a minute between presents and bites of turkey to visit the inspiring Uniform Project site. What would it take for YOU to wear one LBD for a month solid?

On The Fringe

2010-11-26T02:41:00.000-08:00

Article and illustrations by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

Mr Mark Bolan's famous hair

How often have we heard ourselves complain about the texture of our hair? It seems many ladies yearn for the opposite of what they possess. For example, gals with curly hair long for straight and vice versa. I happen to be an exception and you won’t hear me lament, “oh my hair, what cruel strands have I been dealt....you’re sooo lucky you have wavy hair”. Although it could be a little thicker, I am, in fact,quite satisfied with my unremarkable straight hair.
This wasn’t always the case. Let’s dial back to a time when ‘classic rock’ wasn’t yet classic, it was just ‘rock’ and punk had yet to be invented. I’m reminded of a small window of time during that era when my straight Valerie Bertinelli hair was convinced it might look cooler with a perm.

"...My mom actually cried when she saw the hatchet job. Now you know how I feel, lady, I thought to myself..."

A Spiral Perm. This should be a perm to rival Peter Frampton’s. From the ‘Frampton Comes Alive’ live (duh) double album. I believe it was overuse of the Wah-Wah guitar pedal that actually made his hair come alive. As was the case with the hair condition of Jimi Hendrix, Jimmy Page and that guy from Metallica-- all Wah-Wah pedal aficionados. But, as usual class, I digress. Maybe it was a little earlier and Marc Bolan drilled it into my head with the line “I ain’t no square with my corkscrew hair” as he banged a gong. Would this imply that with my non-corkscrew hair I am a square? I want the “universe reclining in my hair” too. To the nearest hair saloon, I must texturize!

This would be my first time at a real beauty parlor. Up until then it was all, ‘Sit still, godammit!’ as my mom tried to square off my fringe year after painful year. The outcome always lopsided, it looked as if she had been cutting my hair on the Andrea Gail during a perfect storm. And then there was the time I did it myself when I was six and discovered scissors. My mom actually cried when she saw the hatchet job. Now you know how I feel, lady, I thought to myself.

Since my mother wasn’t up to speed on home perm kits (thankfully), I nervously settled my teen-age self into a salon chair-- not unlike being at a dentist appointment. In fact, some measure of anesthetic would have been comforting when the state of my freshly permed hair hit full force from the giant mirror in front of me, and behind and beside. After hunkering down for about two hours with tight rollers wedged into my head it was a foregone conclusion: I was a frightening surround of Robert Plant and Stevie Nicks’ love child multiplied ad infinitum.

Not only that but I had to fork over six months of babysitting money for the privilege. I had heard about salon nightmares and now I had my own initiation. The saddest part is that I tried to convince myself that it was an okay look. But it wasn’t. My Bertinelli feather-winged bangs had morphed into a horizontal mopped Don Martin character from Mad Magazine, which was a fine tribute if that’s the look you were going for. I tried pulling a few fusilli strands straight and down into a considerably more natural gravitational position, only to let go and hear “boi-innggg” as they snapped back into place.

Classic Don Martin

It was on the way home when the word ‘perm’ really sank in. Noooo, I thought with a sinking horror. But it’s true; perm is short for permanent. I’m going to look like this for the rest of my life! I darted into the house and into the sanctuary of my bedroom before my brother and his friends could feast their eyes on this moving target. Damn you 1970s classic rock icons! I shook my fist at the KISS army poster above my bed. I tore off my jean jacket (adorned with the Rolling Stones’ tongue logo I had painstakingly hand-stitched on the back) and reassessed the damage at my large vanity mirror. Sob.

My new hairdo happened to be all the more tragic because at this point in my life I had just started to ‘transition’. No, I wasn’t pre-op sex change. It was that all-important time in a young person’s life when they heed the call to transition from their Led Zep “Good Times, Bad Times” hard rock ways to the new “let’s see my hippie parents figure this shit out” cult of punk. So what was I thinking when I opted for a knock-off Wilson sisters (of Heart, not Wilson-Phillips) hair sculpture? I don’t know. Perhaps some mystical deep-rooted sense of loyalty to those days of yore took hold of me -- or maybe it was that after-school joint. I tried pulling a comb through it. Nope. The universe will most definitely not be reclining in my hair anytime soon. My ‘do’ would be rejecting whatever might come near it. I now have my own force field. This will not be terribly handy if I happen to attend the upcoming high school dance.

Sure, I could have shaved my head or sculpted a Mohawk. But Skoolers, I at least had the wherewithal to assess my face shape and I came to the conclusion that removing all my hair would render me rather moon-faced (not an alluring look), and just a tad too exposed for my environment. But why was I thinking in terms of extremes? Why not have the best of both worlds? No I was not going to entertain the mullet nor would I implement the ‘faux hawk’-- I’m just not that butch. I would have to be patient.
At every reasonable opportunity I trimmed the fringe and looked forward to the full recovery of my smooth bangs. I found a way to accept the waviness elsewhere on my head. I told myself that it would look rather Joey Ramonesque. It would be okay. I’d make sure to supplement with plenty of heavy liquid eyeliner. And slowly, like a caterpillar shedding its unbearable David Lee Roth wigged cocoon, I would emerge with my lovely limp locks free from the bondage of 1970’s freakytown. Yes, free at last from the ridicule of my brother and his friends telling me not to go near any more light sockets. Free from my dad telling me that the school janitor called and said he wants his mop back. And free from being mistaken for Twisted Sister’s younger sister.

Meanwhile, I looked up again at my KISS poster, “Why, Paul Stanley, why?” I implored. The room started to spin (which wasn’t unusual actually), Paul shifted his intense rock god gaze down to face me and imparted these words of wisdom: “Be yourself and follow your own look”. Wow. That’s heavy. “Oh, and by the way”, he added, “You’re soooo lucky you have naturally straight hair”.

Endless Pajama Party

2010-11-11T15:29:00.000-08:00

Linda in bed, shoes on, waiting for that call

by Mistress Justine Brown

Linda Evangelista and I have much in common. So very much. It's spooky. There's the Canadian thing, and well, all sorts of stuff. Anyway, most importantly, we both refuse to get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day. More with inflation; it's been a while since Linda drew our line in the sand. But since adequate offers have been a bit thin on the ground recently in my neck of the woods-- I swear there's something wrong with my phone-- Mistress Brown has been firmly planted in bed for quite a spell. As the days turn dark, you may feel the need to take up this position as well.

And there's nothing wrong with that! It's not a protest or anything, no sir. I love bed. From a wee girl I have made the hay my home-within-a-home. I sit at the centre of a shifting pile of books, papers, snacks, crafts (I'm into beading at the moment, which has led to quite a few Princess and the Pea moments), moisturisers and plenty of makeup. I have a hand mirror, and try out different looks from time to time. Even now I am in bed, laptop perched upon my knees. If I have written anything worthy over the years, rest assured (ho ho) it has issued from this humble correspondent's bed.

Young Mistress Brown. Note silk pajamas and bed.

If I tell you that some of my happiest moments have happened between the sheets, will you promise not to smirk or waggle your eyebrows? Life is a perennial pajama party here in Milady's Boudoir. I'm thinking of pajama parties of yore now, proper ones where the pjs stay on and everyone engages in wholesome activities, like playing Monopoly, dyeing their spiky hair and painting their toenails. Cocktails are quaffed, but delicately, because no-one wants to wreck the party place.

pj parties of yore

Of course, stylish pajamas are the key to stylish pajama parties. When I became a punk, I was gratified by the prominence of pajamas among the denizens of that world. Attentive Skoolkids will recall that one of my best friends knocked 'em dead, ravishing the menfolk by staying fully clothed in the sack, shoes and all. She balanced this look off by wearing red paisley pajamas during the day. Sending boys to the store in their pjs became a crucial test: if they weren't willing to do that little thing for us, we wanted nothing more to do with them. I also remember fondly a trend among some guys for sporting silk kimonos over t-shirts and jeans for a languid daytime-into-evening look.

Just add boy of your dreams

The Chinese have given us the world's best pajamas, those fitted satin ones with embroidery. I am wearing a pair as I write. Head down to your local Chinatown to find them, or, if for some excellent reason you are confined to your bed, simply order them off the net. Now that you are suitably attired, you may be in the mood to socialize. Rather than-- Heaven forfend--don't go getting crazy on me, now-- abandoning the boudoir, why not bring the party to you? Treat your friends in the run-up to Christmas. A lot of spas and salons are offering in-home services these days. Recently I discovered the existence of a fabulous den of femininity, Lost in Beauty (www.lostinbeauty.com), a lovely salon in London's deeply fashionable Primrose Hill, popular with the feted "Primrose Hill Set". How do I know it's lovely, you ask? I made an exception and went there in a fur-lined cab, all right? It was Hallowe'en, and I fit right in what with my glossy satin pjs and all. The makeup artists were cheerfully at work preparing their alluring customers for costume parties, so there were plenty of glammed-up goths and witches to admire. Lost in Beauty has a vintage look, sort of 1920s luxe, a full range of beauty services, and a selection of tempting products (like the inimitable Rose Day Cream from Dr. Hauschka, which I smooth on to comfort my complexion when I'm not bombarding it with tretinoin and alpha-hydroxy acids.)

With the proper decorations festooning your bed, tinsel streamers and the like, perhaps a yuletide scene on the headboard, you can easily stage your Christmas party from the comfort of that happy spot. Order in a team of these festive experts to pamper your nearest and dearest with pedicures, manicures, makeup, massage, threading; all sorts of things! Plus-- champagne. Yes. Just be ready to lay on breakfast; I don't think their packages include that.

I love a good pedicure. Since I'm not really into bedroom slippers, my feet need to look good all year round, really set off those pjs-- considering the circumstances. (You know, sticking to our bed-bound principles and all.) At the moment, nail polish colours are shall we say counterintuitive. For the last few seasons, Chanel has had the last word on nail colour. Last season it was "greige", a strange but strangely attractive (to women, at least) combo of gray and beige. Here in London it's a mob scene at the Chanel counter once the powers that style have discerned the colour of the season. A moment ago it was jade. Or eggplant. This is all very well, but the fact remains that men like red, and I concur. Red on the toes and something pale on the fingers, though for some reason I feel weird if both sets of my nails are done at the same time. At any rate, that's what some of my pals are getting for Christmas: pedicures in my glorious bed. With their feel sort of dangling off to save the duvet.

If I send the cab for her, Linda-- you remember Linda-- will doubtless come round for the festivities. She may be busy these days, but surely not too busy to pay her respects to someone with high standards like herself. When she does, I'll walk to the bedroom door on tippy-toes with my Barbie feet, champagne glasses in hand, and invite her in for a night of pajama perfection and girly delights. I just hope we can sync up our calendars.

Subculture Afterlife: the Tango

2010-10-30T14:18:00.000-07:00

by Mistress Justine Brown

If you, dear Reader, are anything like me, you spent your adolescence in louche nightclubs (or trying to gain entrance to them). You belonged to a thrilling subculture. The world revolved around music, and you collected records and mixed tapes fervently and danced with abandon. Bands and musicians generally occupied the pinnacle of an elaborately coded and mannered social world, the scene, one which was obscure to most people, people whose tastes you and your friends dismissed contemptuously as "mainstream." As you stalked down the street, studiously ignoring one and all, you examined telephone poles for posters which closely resembled kidnap notes: these let you know where you would be spending your Friday and Saturday nights.Your clothes-- mostly black-- hair, makeup and general deportment inspired passing members of the public to roll their eyes and insult you, sometimes yell, wave their fists and even issue threats. And more. Punk, goth, psychobilly, or something along those lines, you had a hell of a lot of fun.

The irresistible Robert Smith

Feeling nostalgic? If so, Mistress Brown has a prescription: take up Argentine tango. Tango has been enjoying an international revival since the early 1990s. A niggling difficulty with youth subculture is this: it's for youth. This doesn't mean you are forbidden to head out occasionally and see the latest local band or are banished from the Cure reunion gig. It doesn't mean you can't pull the blinds and drown yourself in Nick Cave murder ballads now and then. But do you really want to spend the rest of your days in the abject position of trying to recapture the feeling of being seventeen, and looking to teenagers (possibly-- ouch-- your own teenagers) for all the cues? Broaden your stylistic horizons and add some musical culture-- say jazz, blues, opera, or TANGO-- that ages well. As a flamboyant youngster, you may have relished the opportunity to dress like an undertaker, a vampire or a pirate. Once you enter the world of the tango, you can wear the best shoes in the world (the Comme Il Faut brand for instance makes Manolos look like Birkenstocks), sport your most dramatic dark clothing and makeup, flourish a fan, wave it, whisper behind it and generally behave like an eighteenth-century coquette. With impecunity.

What are those tangueras talking about behind their fluttering fans? I might as well tell you the worst up front. They're dissecting everyone else's dancing. If you can handle that, you can handle Argentine tango. The hierarchy-- and every subculture rests on some type of caste system-- is based on dancing. But since everybody was a beginner at some point, and a person never really finishes learning the tango, the playing field is reasonably level. In the world of tango, to say that a person dances like a 70-year-old is to pay a high compliment. Make the term "vintage" really stand for something! Devote your evenings to the melancholy pleasures of Argentine tango.

Once you do so, you will find yourself, oddly enough, frequenting some of the venues of yesteryear. Dance enthusiasts rent the same sorts of places-- the Latvian Friendship Centre, say, or an old dine-and-dance joint that's been languishing since 1974-- as punk rock bands used to do. There you can usually find a class or two, followed by a dance that seems part Weimar Berlin, part cartoon (remember when Bugs Bunny used to dress as a girl and go dancing?). No look, no gesture is too extravagant. Just make sure to wear leather or suede soles, otherwise you'll stick to the floor. Men, when dressing, use black as your basenote and work from there. Women! Raccoon eyes, oiled chignon, sequins, clingy gowns; do what you do best. Just make sure you can stride in it.

Betty Boop prepares to tango

Many of us rue the day that men and women stopped cutting a rug together. Tango affords a welcome respite from the lonely and robotic "individualism" of today's average dancefloor. Nothing is neutral in the tango world. There are leaders (mostly men) and followers (mostly women), but one quickly learns that there is nothing inherently passive in following. The first time I attended a milonga (a formal dance, as opposed to a practica), we were entertained by a pair of men in snazzy gray suits. Their excellent performance somehow fused the Marx Brothers with karate. The average tango couple aims at something more subtle, though-- a wordless conversation. People wax mystical about the tango connection at its best. Suffice to say it is intimate. However, this is not an intimacy that leads automatically to the bedroom. It usually stays on the dancefloor: the tango world is not a meat market.

That said, you may very well meet your heart's desire at the milonga. At the very least, you can star in your own movie. The striking cast of characters, ranging in age from 18 to 80, is laid on. So too is the ravishing soundtrack, featuring everything from Astor Piazzolla to the Gotan Project, and assorted points in between. (Sometimes there is live music as well).You are in charge of wardrobe. Need a few pointers? Here is an Argentine recipe. Put your hair up-- it gets hot in those places-- and powder your face as pale as you like. I favour a choice between dark, smoky eyes (check out Lauren Luke's eye makeup tutorials on YouTube, or go to http://www.bylaurenluke.com/looks.aspx%20) and crimson lipstick, but you may want both. A lady cannot go wrong with a black wraparound dress and a pair of shoes that look good and stay on. Add a little perfume and a big, sparkly cocktail ring on your left hand, all the better to dangle over your partner's shoulder. A bracelet looks good on the right wrist, near where the hands clasp. Indulge the love of black, white, a dash of red and lots more black; return to those dark little haunts, join the clique and above all get swept away in gorgeous music. You are ready for subculture afterlife--just like heaven.

Free Range Radicals

2010-10-08T12:24:00.000-07:00

article and illustrations by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

Not so many years after Grade Eight Home Ec. class (or as I liked to call it, Skoolers, ‘Home Yech’ class) everything I learned about nutrition and a balanced diet went down the drain. Cooking was never on the front burner at my home-- that’s what drive-ins were for. My dad schooled me in the efficacy of fast food outlets and we weren’t afraid to use them. We simply rotated the three major food groups: pizza, burgers and fried chicken-- all readily available for pick up.

I transferred these good eating habits into my very young adulthood. However, once out of the family home the frequency with which I patronized fine and fast eating establishments depended on the cash flow. The alternative to this method of sustenance was, of course, reliance on what may have been lingering in the kitchen. The nutritional and economic state of the average punk household was reflected in the contents of its fridge. Upon inspection one might find a crusty bottle of ketchup, a shriveled potato well past retirement and an ancient box of baking soda orphaned by the previous tenants.

This icebox inventory illustrates the factors that produce the punk rock pallor in all its empty nutrient splendor. As a result it was rare to see a rosy-cheeked punk and even harder to find a healthy glow. Sickly pale was the skin color du jour. We would never have darkened the doorway of a tanning salon; if we wanted more pigment in our skin, we opted for jaundice. We reflected the environment we lived in: up all night, sleep all day-- there was no sun-kissed look.

The emaciated and pasty Stiv Bators, antithesis of a Chippendale dancer, was a classic example of the punk prototype. Breakfast for Stiv consisted of a big bowl of steaming hot snarl-- most likely diet snarl. That guy was really skinny. If he were alive today he would probably market “Sonic Reducer” as a secret carb-burning supplement. I’d buy it.

Some of the classic punk rock food staples back in the day were basic items such as toast or beer or, if one was feeling rather flush, toast and beer-- good for any of the three squares. Then there is the legendary Kraft dinner. Only the imagination can limit the multitude of ways to bastardize this dish. I’m just glad tofu hadn’t been invented back then-- I would have hated for any nutritional value to have compromised my standards. Cereals were very popular in my kitchen, given the fact that I hosted breakfast for a boyfriend with the maturity level of a seven-year-old. Naturally, the cereal selections were based on sugar content and the prize inside. Words of wisdom, Skoolers: if you want to get rid of your punk rock boyfriend, stop feeding him Captain Crunch and he will go away. Guaranteed.

For me, Vancouver's legendary Railway Club served as an all-you-can-eat buffet, the bars garnish caddy being the buffet. With such delicacies as lemon and lime wedges, (no scurvy!), maraschino cherries, pearl onions and celery stalks (fruit and veg!) mealtime meant never having to settle for just a bag of chips. A lot of punks really didn’t eat much. If it was a choice between a half-sack of Extra Old Stock brew or food, then snacking on beer labels seemed to suffice. Simply tear and chew. Between the protein in the glue and the fiber content in the paper you are looking at an adequate amount of roughage with the beer rounding out the recommended daily nutrient intake, not to mention a dose of vitamin B6.

The ‘dine and dash’ was a fairly popular pastime and method of replenishment. But be sure not to overeat when undertaking this venture and go easy on the bread basket, as it can hinder the ‘dash’ part of the evening, leaving one rather vulnerable while attempting to exit. Greasy spoons were the typical eating establishments in punk culture and, in particular, Nemoto’s cafe just off Hastings Street was a breakfast favorite. My friend Sally and I would wile away the time waiting for the waiter to bring us our order by singing “You Can’t Hurry Jimmy” sung to the tune by the Supremes “You Can’t Hurry Love”.

Another restaurant on the punk rock landscape was Mr. Mike’s. It was a low budget steak house franchise established in 1960. I was quite familiar with it, as it had been a family favorite. The only restaurant I remember patronizing as a kid where you could actually get a serrated steak knife! We went there when my parents were on their best behavior. I would amuse myself by studying that paper placemat with the fun and colorful illustrations of the various bar drinks. I learned their names, their contents and scrupulously mapped out what order I would one day try each of them...Harvey Wallbanger, Singapore Sling-- what funny names for cocktails. Come to think of it, ‘cocktail’ is a funny name for a drink. Tom Collins, Rob Roy, hmmm, it kind of makes Shirley Temple sound like a big baby’s drink. Hey, that Manhattan sounds cool... Those place mats were an invaluable education and helped me to appear quite drink savvy when I reached my teens. Never mind a diploma, I’ve got a framed comprehensive cocktail chart on parchment paper hanging in my den.

By the late 1970s, the Mr. Mike’s restaurants started to slowly disappear but there remained one on Granville Street where a large portion of punks managed to gain employment due to one hapless manager who thought putting people like Chuck Biscuits in charge of the salad bar was a good idea. A useless and long expired insider’s tip: if you must eat at that Mr. Mike’s location, stick with the baked potato with its insulated aluminum safety jacket. Unless, of course, you are craving a smorgasbord of human bodily fluids and feel the need to pay for them, then have at it.

Meanwhile, in terms of at-home gatherings, I don’t remember too many punks hosting dinner parties; most owned little more than a can opener for cooking equipment. That and a fork will get you on your way to Beefaroni bliss. Enjoyed hot or room temperature, it makes for a fine meal. Fruit and vegetables, which would have greatly aided in the appearance of health, were sorely missing from the punk diet. Did I miss the all-ages ‘Rock Against Produce’ concert? The only vegetable on that guest list was the potato. And so many punks subsisted on the spud that people starting speaking with Irish accents.

Today it’s all about anti-oxidants and eradicating free radicals. I remember when being a free radical was hip; now they are the enemy. But really, back then we had bigger fish to fry, and when you’re young the last thing you are mulling over is if you are getting enough Omega 3-6-9. And screw protein. Muscles were for jocks. But over the years the palate matures and what was once a delectable indulgence, such as the sparkling strawberry Pop Tart, is now just a shell of its former self. That’s why I’ve switched to the irresistible raspberry flavored ones. I’ve come a long way in improving my healthy eating habits. I realize now that donuts aren’t just for breakfast anymore, pizza actually counts as not one but four food groups and chocolate milk tastes pretty good even without the vodka.

The Blue Peel Letters

2010-09-30T16:12:00.000-07:00

Assorted approaches to aging skin: diversion, concealment...

In spite of strict Skool rules against passing notes in class, SOMEONE has produced the following mysterious letters. They are signed only "A Lady."

Dear Miss X,

Few ladies, I think you will agree, enjoy the effects of time upon the complexion. I celebrated a milestone birthday recently. It so happened that my husband and I were staying in a fine hotel in the Far East-- Hong Kong, to be precise. The sun blazed through the picture windows, leaving me feeling mercilessly exposed. Catching sight of my reflection in the glass, I gave a start. The mirror in the powder room wasn't much kinder, although the light was soft. Horrors! It seemed that I had aged overnight. My face looked fatigued. I had fine lines, yes, but what troubled me more were the dark patches that seemed to shadow my face.

Over-exposure to the sun, you say? Those of us who follow Beauty Skool know your strict rules on sun exposure, Mistress Brown, and that you champion the white complexion of an eighteenth-century coquette. And yet I had, since a girl, shunned bronzing and had worn a sunscreen every day, no matter what the weather, for the last twenty years. What in heaven's name was going on?

This revelation cast a pall over the birthday celebrations my husband had thoughtfully prepared. I no longer felt at ease, in spite of his gallantries. The only thing solution was to procure a powerful sunscreen and concealer. Fortunately, Hong Kong is not only a shopper's pleasure garden, it is also a place where ladies are particularly concerned with maintaining a luminous complexion free of dark spots. They make their way through the humid streets of the vertical city carrying parasols or-- less charming but equally practical-- ordinary umbrellas, and they buy "whitening" products (designed to erase the depredations of the sun) in vast quantities.

I took up my parasol and made my way through the steamy streets to market. Shiseido is a particular favourite among Hong Kong womanhood, as are luxury brands in general. Immense glowing billboards and magazine advertisements attest to this fact. After much consideration, I decided to buy Mac Prep + Prime Face Protect SPF 50 and some tried and true Maybelline Super Stay 24H Concealer to sustain me until we returned to London via Saudi Arabia-- another Eastern land where the ladies are mad for luxury goods-- and I could consult a dermatologist. I had resolved to make an investment, let us say, in my skin.

The quest for beauty, Arabian style. Courtesy of Mattel.

Meanwhile, I adorned my face as best I could and enjoyed my birthday. With makeup I can make a tolerably attractive mask. These days, I have resorted to wielding concealer before my husband awakes. Oh! He stirs, and I must leave off my tale for the moment.

Cordially yours,

A Lady

We in the staff room were immediately reminded of a pleasing anecdote from the Beauty Skool Hall of Fame. A Vancouver scenester gal spent the night with a member of a celebrated English band in the early 1980s. After he had played at the Commodore Ballroom, they repaired to his hotel room. Now this gal liked her warpaint. We are not sure we would have recognized her without her white pancake makeup, sooty eyeshadow and liquid liner, and above all her brilliant red lipstick topped off, Helmut Newton style, with reflective gloss. She passed the night with this gentleman, and awoke early with a sense of unease: he was about to see her without her polished mask of pigments. So she quietly repaired to the powder room, reapplied it all to perfection, and slid back into his arms before he woke up. Triumph! Illusion intact.

Beekeeping fashion: another strategy for dealing with uncooperative skin

Dear Miss X,

Upon our return to England, I found that the malady still haunted me. I was terribly self-conscious-- not only before my husband, but other people as well-- about the dark spots and enlarged pores upon my visage, and felt that some kind of rejuvenation was crucial. In the meantime, inspired by our visit to Arabia, I took up beekeeping as a hobby. My boon companion, Mrs. X, kindly suggested a trip to take the waters at Bath. Tempting as this was, I felt that something uniquely designed for skin was in order. I therefore made an appointment to visit the Harley Medical Group, a practice which specializes in plastic surgery, but also offers a host of "non-invasive" procedures.

My fellow sufferers in the doctor's waiting room affected not to notice my new costume, and in fact chatted with me aimiably on the subject of rejuvenation procedures. I met a family of three-- father, mother, and daughter of nineteen. It emerged that the young lady had recently undergone an operation to enlarge her bosom, and had come to have her stitches removed. So the gentleman confided to me when the ladies were closeted away with the surgeon. "A father doesn't notice such things," he stated. I must confess I was a little taken aback when the nurse summoned him to join them in the consulting room! However, I busied myself with pamphlets. I soon had my heart set upon something called the IPL Laser, which is supposed to banish uneven areas and effect an overall tightening.

"Madame X?" a young and fresh-faced nurse stood before me. "Would you care to follow me?" At the Harley Medical Group, the initial diagnosis is performed by a senior nurse. This nurse did not appear senior, but her manner was professional. She did not attempt to further erode my self-confidence, as some of these practitioners are reputed to do, by suggesting that I might need a new nose, chin, or set of cheekbones. However, she did persuade me that the IPL Laser was unsuitable. Apparently, it sometimes has the effect, albeit rarely, of intensifying dark spots, and is best used for freshening the complexion. She suggested that I undergo what is known as an Obagi Blue Peel, declaring upon her honour that she had never known a patient to regret the procedure.

And now I must leave off for the moment. Duty calls: the bees are in need of my attention.

Cordially yours etc.,

A Lady

My dear Miss X,

Pour etre belle, il faut souffrir, as our wise French sisters are wont to declare. Beauty demands suffering. My bees seem seem intent upon teaching me this hard lesson. More to the point, my charming gentleman surgeon does also. Happily, he relies upon words for instruction. During my most recent visit to his offices, he explained the Obagi philosophy in detail and equipped me with a large box of ointments and unguents, together with directions printed upon a card. The products are designed to acclimatise the skin, to prepare it for a certain... harshness. He exacted a promise: that I would use no other products upon my skin until the Blue Peel itself is performed in eight weeks' time-- an occasion known mysteriously as "Smurf Day." I gave him my word. Also, I vowed to use only mineral makeup-- insofar as I use cosmetics at all, as I told him (haha!), I now use only Laura Mercier's powdered primer and foundation. It appears that other cosmetics act as a barrier between the skin and Dr. Obagi's creams.

Let it be known that many types of mineral makeup are available, but Miss Mercier's offerings are particularly pleasing-- they include crushed pearls among their ingredients!-- if a little expensive. Maybelline has a line of mineral cosmetics, and I myself own a pot of their Pure Mineral Blush in Pink Topaz along with the concealer I mentioned earlier (and which I am now forbidden to use). In fact, London ladies are quite smitten with Maybelline, which boasts a kind of exoticism in this city.

I was told to expect a certain amount of redness and spontaneous exfoliation, as though I had-- perish the thought!-- spent some hours in the sun without my parasol. And indeed, after a week or so, I did begin to experience some strange phenomena which caused me to reach for my fan and wave it energetically.

Distract onlookers and obtain relief from a certain burning sensation with this indispensable item

But I am ecstatic to report that after this same week the dark shadows which had caused me so much distress had vanished! Soon afterward, the unpleasant symptoms began to abate (however, the nurse tells me that week four is typically the least comfortable). My complexion is wonderfully even-toned for the first time in a year. I look forward to what the coming days will bring, and to further describing my experiences to you.

Your faithfully,

A Lady

Stay tuned, class! Skool rules notwithstanding, we await the next missive from our veiled correspondent.

A Hair's Breadth from Kate Moss

2010-09-15T22:43:00.000-07:00

by Mistress Justine Brown

James Brown with his friend, Kate

About a year ago, I read about how Kate Moss' old pal and hairstylist, James Brown, who she's known since her Croydon days, was opening a salon in a quiet spot off London's Oxford Street, the hugest and most frenetic shopping promenade in Europe. A big fabulous party was held, and Kate Moss did her best to help her friend promote his new business and line of hair products. Strolling along Wigmore Street (yes, Wigmore Street), I spied the salon and darted in on a whim. Why not get two big silver streaks at my temples? I said to myself-- in spite of what I wrote on this very subject not so long ago (see "London Hair Trends Redux").

The picture that started it all

The sensible Irish colourist talked me out of my silly idea and into a better one. Why not get two big creamy blond streaks to complement my already bleached hair? The salon was relatively quiet when I went there, so I had no chance to goggle at the clientele. But I had my ideas about them. I made a lunchtime appointment for the following Tuesday.

I reasoned that half their customers must be made up of streaky blond Kate Moss fans and wannabees, all hoping, like myself, to hear the words "Hey, you look a bit like Kate." I was ready to settle for "Hey, you look a bit like Kate's fat older sister." Or even... no, Mistress Brown has her (now radically depleted) dignity to maintain. Anyway, it turns out that I was by far the most deluded person in the salon. It was peopled by serious style folk of all ages and walks of life. Each one of them had a clear idea of the look they were going for, from the tailored young man with the shiny black 80s-esque short-back-and-sides to the gallery-going seventy-year-old lady with the severe gray bob. Not a blonde in sight. (By the way, if you want to see the women who share my affliction, go down to Top Shop, where Kate has a line of clothing inspired by the contents of her own closet.)

I made my usual mistake with hairdressers. When, before touching my hair, Antony kindly complimented me on my overall colour, I blithely replied "Thanks. I do it myself." I even mentioned Clairol's brilliant newish product, Perfect 10, which really does give a great result without wrecking the hair, all in ten minutes. Might as well have slapped him in the face with a wet fish. Why do I do that? Not only is it churlish, it's dangerous. I mean, this is the guy who is about to apply toxic chemicals to my hair.

I told the cheerful, friendly shampoo girl about the Skool, and she said she'd quite like to attend. I told her about how a Skoolgirl who shall remain nameless was documenting her Obagi Blue Peel (watch this space!). And although the colourist stayed mum, the shampoo girl did mention Kate. Yes. I didn't even have to raise the topic. We looked at the current copy of ID magazine featuring our heroine on the cover. Her hair was short and dark, and she looked about fifteen. I couldn't believe it was a new photo, but it was. Apparently James Brown, who styled the shoot, had to encourage her a little to wear that wig, but in the end they were both thrilled with the results. "I had my hair like that when I was a teenager," I hinted embarrassingly. Nuthin'. Not a sausage.

And here's Mistress Brown just last week.I mean, throw me a bone here, people!

I came out of the salon all freshened and styled and feeling glamorous. I had big golden hair. "Look! Doesn't she look like Kate Moss?" I heard someone whisper, and I turned to see the slender teenager who had caught everyone's attention. Oh well. I reckon I'll go back to the James Brown Salon though. Antony steered me out of hazardous waters hair-wise, and he deserves some courtoisie. Plus, the fantasy is worth the price of admission alone.

Needles and Pins

2010-09-03T01:23:00.000-07:00

article and illustrations by Mrs Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

Soo Catwoman graces the cover of the NME

The Queen has always been a style icon

1977 was a bumper year for new music. It was also the year that I flipped through NME magazine and saw the safety pin being used for something other than a diaper or a kilt. The pin's status had been elevated from the unassuming utilitarian item found in the depths of a drawer or bottom of a pencil holder to the latest must-have (punk) defining accessory. The prolific use of that household item made such an impact that I had to run to my mom's sewing kit and see what was available for my own purposes. What a goldmine! She kept a well-stocked old cookie tin full various-sized pins that never saw the light of day. I selected one that I thought to be the perfect size. Yes, I said to myself, this needs to go in my ear.

Never having had my ears pierced, I spent a moment contemplating how I was going to execute the task. I tested the waters, poking at the skin. Ouch. I quickly realized I would need a much sharper needle (back to the sewing kit, and to the freezer for some ice). I even went so far as to grab a Bic lighter to sterilize my surgical implement. Not bad, I thought, as I surveyed my medical supplies.

Face front class here are the necessary implements!

With the aid of Johnny Rotten screaming ‘fuck this and fuck that’ from the turntable and a hard day of pent-up teen angst, I hit the ground running. I sat at my vanity mirror in my pink-coated bedroom (to match the pink and red shag carpeting I had picked out for my 15th birthday) and tried to freeze my lobe with the ice cube. My fingers got too cold. I moved onto Step Two. With a shaky but determined hand I tried pushing the sewing needle in to my wiggly soft right ear lobe. It only wanted to accommodate the intrusive needle and stretched along with it as my ear wondered why it was being punished. Argh. It’s nothing personal, lobe, trust me, this is going to look cool. I had to stop and breathe. Okay-- let’s try this again. Finally, after a lot of snarling through gritted teeth on my part, it was pierced! A little blood, but I was smart enough to have some cotton balls at the ready – however, not so smart to know that hydrogen peroxide would have been beneficial.

Hastily I grabbed my new piece of ‘jewelry’ and inserted it into my freshly pierced ear. Closing the safety pin was a little tricky (read painful) but eventually I got it. Pride doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt. Try ‘warrior.’ Move over Sheena, the Ramones will be singing about me next! Ya, sure my ear lobe was red and throbbing and felt violated and betrayed but I was going to show off my new adornment at school tomorrow and nothing was going to stop me. Not even the fact that when I woke the next day, the victimized lobe was blazing hot and a tad puffy. I assured myself that my ear was simply adapting to the foreign piece of metal and eventually it would calm down.

Miss Thirlwell rocks the halls

I swaggered through the halls of my high school in a way that suggested, “I have just reached a new height of cool – ask me how.” Unfortunately, nobody did, so I had to go the extra mile and flick my hair back nonchalantly to unveil my handiwork. This was met with exclamations like “what the hell is that?” “does that hurt?” and “freak.” “Anarchy, baby,” I replied, “ nah” (yep), and “thank you.” It was obvious that my high school was not very progressive. The outlook was chronic Jock Nifty Journey with a sprinkling of Jethro Tull Stoner. By the time I got home from a long day of ‘show and tell’ and more teen angst, my ear lobe was the size of a golf ball. There was nothing safe about that safety pin. The next few days were pus-filled.

The second time I attempted to become pierced was in the doorway of a market on a small Greek island. It cost about five dollars to get the job done. My lobes became infected within 24 hours.

The third and last stab at giving pierced ears a go was at a community college. I was nervous about the lump of scar tissue that had formed in the lobe from the first two procedures but I hoped for the best. Surely the cosmetology program would be supervised with sterilized tools. I lasted about a week before my ears fully rejected the generic hoops. That’s it. Like a lady whose only choice is to adopt, I would spend my life wearing clip-ons. Although they fulfill the same desire they still aren’t really your own.

So maybe when multiple piercings came on the scene it only reminded me of my failed attempts. I wasn’t bitter. And when people explored new territories of punctuation I knew I would only be a spectator. And a listener: nothing says sophisticated like the impishly sweet lisp one acquires after having had their tongue pierced. Aw, you sound just like little Cindy Brady with that big fat dumbbell sticking through your tongue, how cute are you?
I mean edgy. Plus there’s the added bonus of the quasi-sexually suggestive distraction of said tongue-pierced talker spicing up the delivery of their words while playing tongue tag with their new slab of mouth metal. I know that for me, as an audience member, this is a mesmerizing way to spend an afternoon.

Are some of the other pierced areas of the body meant to be a type of code for things one would rather leave unspoken? For example, the barbell through the eyebrow, the dangling bellybutton chains, the hoops through nipples and places where no jeweler should have to venture.

Piercing for decoration can be a little confusing. I nearly made the faux paus of letting my local video store clerk know that she had a Tic Tac stuck to her chin. On closer inspection it was, in fact, ‘jewelry.’ I’ve always marveled at how people manage to get some of their piercings in what seem like tricky places. Did that dead bolt enter through your eye cavity in order to come out of your eyebrow? How does that work? How about those kids with shower curtain hoops in their earlobes stretched to the size of radial tires? And why am I so tempted to hang my dry cleaning from their ears while standing on the bus?

It seems the safety pin, like a collection of K-Tel hit-makers, had its fifteen minutes of fame and adoration and has been relegated back to its humble origins. No longer a statement of rebellion, now it mostly represents a lack of motivation for getting out the needle and thread to replace a button. But if, down the road, I’m feeling sentimental for that old punk rock feeling, I can take solace in knowing that when it comes time to wheel out the Depends, I can go the old school route and use a safety pin to secure them.

Skool Visit: Christie Mellor

2010-05-28T06:01:00.000-07:00

Welcome, Skoolkids. We have a big treat today: Miss Alexandra Oliver has invited Ms. Christie Mellor, author extraordinaire, to talk to us about her writing work in the realms of beauty and beyond. Notebooks at the ready!

interview by Miss Alexandra Oliver
bonus: book review by Miss Justine Brown

our esteemed guest

AO: Ms. Mellor, first of all I would like to welcome you to Beauty Skool. We're all tremendous fans of yours.

CM: Thank you, I am so honored and happy that Beauty Skool has invited me to gab about my new book. And just generally shoot my mouth off. Fire away.

get the book! http://www.facebook.com/l/b14f7
www.christiemellor.com

AO: Well, that book really is a humdinger. I have to hand it to you. Finally, a manual for the over-20 set that respects our uniqueness and inner quirkitude! I find a lot of beauty books for gals of our level of elegance and experience to be either of the "throw in the towel and wear neutrals" variety or of the "you go, girl!" fierce post-Sex and the City variety. This was a like a drink of cool water, I have to tell you. What first tipped you off that the world was in need of a book like this?

CM: Because I was in need of a book like this! Maybe it was one too many "I'm forty and FABULOUS!" magazine covers sporting those ferociously toned, done-up women who all look like they're staring down middle age. They rarely look truly glamorous, and they often look like a caricature of "glamour," like they were dressed by a five-year old who dreams of being Miss America. When I wrote The Three-Martini Playdate, I had the same feeling about those mad parents... "If my child gets into the right preschool and is enrolled in nineteen enrichment classes, he'll end up at Harvard! Quickly! You must learn Mandarin!" I'm seeing the same kind of "I can FIX this" attitude with a lot of women, regarding their own aging selves. Also, I'm going through a number of changes myself, but I never seemed to see myself represented anywhere. And I knew that if I felt that way, then there had to be others. I think there are a lot of women out there who are edging toward that certain age, and they're not really sure exactly how to present themselves anymore... so they either recede into the background or they take a staunch stand against the inevitable with a barrage of injections and denial. But there's a lot of middle ground in there, don't you think?

AO: I definitely think so. The media is so youth-driven, and that creates a climate of uneasiness that's hard to ignore. And I think those extremes you speak of reek of that uneasiness, both the beige-and-elastic-waisted pants attitude and the hot, supercougar attitude. I think a lot of ladies are free and adventurous spirits and what makes them so, stylistically speaking, can be maintained in their lives as they press on into the more elegant years. My philosophy is this: one gets more confident about life, about love, about work and ideals and being a parent and all that. One gets a thicker skin and (hopefully) develops a sense of humor. Shouldn't that translate into maintaining one's personal style? Anyhow! I waffle! What has the response been to this book thus far, both amongst your friends and in the wider world?

CM: So far, the response has been overwhelmingly positive. (Other than the fact that there seem to be two camps when it comes to the "waxing" question.) But overall, I'd say the response could safely be called "enthusiastic." I especially love hearing things like "coffee came out of my nose," and "hilarious" from people who are not close friends or relatives. (The coffee in question was not scalding, by the way, and it apparently came out by way of an abrupt guffaw, in case you were worried.) So, yes, to all of the above. I hope my book will encourage more of the free and adventurous spirits to feel more free and adventurous. And to find and embrace our elegant maturity. But you're right... with a sense of humor. We mustn't lose that. And if we never had much of a sense of humor about ourselves, it's a perfect time to develop one.

By the way, did I mention how much I love "inner quirkitude?" Delightful. I wish that had been on the back cover.

AO: Why thank you! Neologisms are very handy! And coffee did, in fact, come out of my nose, too. Tell me, how did the research process for this book differ from, say, your research for the other books?

CM: I'm pretty sure the research for this book has been unconsciously going on for at least a few decades. The impetus to write it came more recently, but it may have started festering when I first noticed that various cosmetic procedures were no longer the purview of aging actresses-- it was trickling down to younger and younger actresses, then the female population in general. Until now it seems many women think nothing of rebuilding themselves from the ground up at the first sign of a laugh line. People's idea of "beauty" has gotten narrower and narrower, and I'm sad about that. Although there seems to be a little bit of a backlash. I love some of these big-girl models who are starting to show up on the pages of high-fashion magazines. Even if they are considered "plus size" at size 10 and 12! What a world. But back to your research question... the research for this book was the MOST fun kind of research. When I wasn't reaching back into my brain for stories, I was looking up bad plastic surgery on the Internet, ogling lipsticks and experimenting with homemade scrubs and face-masks. Whee! I've always envied those women whose jobs require them to endure countless facials and beauty treatments and massages, and then report their findings. How does one get a job like that?? I ask you. Sheer heaven.
AO: One thing that blew me out of the water about your book was the sheer volume of marvelous tips. I have personally been rejoicing in the olive oil and sugar face scrub recipe. Have you culled any fabulous beauty tips since the book's appearance that you wish you'd managed to shoehorn in?

CM: Strawberries! If you have any smooshed ones you won't be eating, mash them up with a little salt or sugar, maybe a drop or two of olive oil. There are a lot of good fruit exfoliants -- oranges, papaya. Maybe I could have stressed how easily you can incorporate some of these tips into your life. For instance, you're mashing avocados for a lovely party guacamole? Just scrape off a few teaspoons' worth of avocado and rub it all over your face. (In your hair, too, if you're planning on a pre-party shower.) Continue your party preparations with a green face, and simply remove with a warm washcloth before getting dressed for the evening. Oh! And for a great mask after cleansing, smash some banana in with a little honey and olive oil. It's messy, but so good for your skin. This one is best done while you're soaking in your bath of asses milk, or lying down in a bed of lavender flowers. It gets drippy. Yogurt and honey is a nice combination, too. I don't think I mentioned that one in the book. Did I? Maybe I did. Oh! Rub an orange slice on your face and neck, it's a fruit acid exfoliant. You know, I just had a thought--my sons like to eat seaweed, so we always have sheets of that toasted nori in the kitchen. I'm thinking that a sheet of seaweed, dampened and placed over the face might make a nice mask. Perhaps not the toasted kind. Hm, I'll get back to you on that.

AO: Summer is almost upon us; we at the Beauty Skool are filling out report cards, cleaning off the desks, rolling up the maps of our glamour empire and generally preparing for the summer holidays. How does your beauty regime change in the summer? How can we all look resplendent at all those barbecues and garden parties and beach sing-a-longs?

CM: I don't think we want to be laden down with too too much makeup during the hotter months. And it's kind of nice going bare-faced. Within reason. You want your skin to look beautiful and glowing, so use whatever it is you like to even out your skin tone, but just use it in spots. Find a comfortable, cool summer shift. Wear a straw hat. Put your hair in braids, or slick it back into a bun. Try out some orange lipstick. It may look awful, but try it. And if it looks awful, just try a red that's brighter than what you're used to. Or fuchsia, it really looks better on than it does in the tube. Just for fun. Or a bronzing powder on your face paired with dark red lips. Or bare lips and lots of eyeliner. If it's muggy and hot where you live, you'll find you want less of everything on your face, but think gels and stains rather than heavy foundations and powders. I need a little powder on my shiny parts, but I don't want so much that a little shine can't show through. You want to see skin and a few freckles in the summer, I think.Big gold earrings, a straw hat and flip flops, a cotton shift. And a big, sunny, lazy smile. Now, go find a hammock and a good book. Maybe have a little nap before that big party. I hope I got an A in Beauty Skool! (goes out singing "Teacher's Pet... I wanna be teacher's pet...")

AO: Tan or no tan?

CM: Well, too much sun really does do terrible things to your skin. And there's something to be said for being the pale lily-skinned lovely with the wide-brimmed hat, parasol and gloves. I really try to avoid the sun -- although a little romping around in it should really be done more often by everyone. And (gasp!) without sunscreen. We're not getting enough vitamin D! Just don't lie down in it for hours on end. If you are going to be out in it for hours, wear a hat and protect your skin. I have a bathing suit with fabulous three-quarter sleeves and a zip down the front. It's from Australia, where they make fantastic sun-protection clothing, because they have a big hole in their ozone. I feel very Bond Girl in it, and it keeps my shoulders from getting sunburned. But I do like the look of a tan sometimes, so I like to find a nice bronzing powder. A little dusting of bronze with some nice dark red lips, there's a good look. You don't need to go for the whole orange-y faux-tan, please. There's a reason why faux tans usually look so faux. When a person actually gets "tan," it's a very painterly combination of colors (depending on what your skin type is, of course) -- but pinks, Indian reds, and various golds and bronzes are often involved. And the color is never distributed evenly. So the best plan for making your color look as natural as possible is to dust a little bronzing powder on the bridge of your nose, your cheeks, your forehead and chin, your collarbones. Maybe your shoulders. Don't go overboard, and let your skin show through. If you're an overly shiny person, as I am, I usually need to tamp down the excessive shine on my forehead, for fear of blinding passersby. But leave a little shine on your cheeks and a bit on your forehead, so you don't look too powdered. Mix a little blush with the bronzer dusted on your cheeks, and maybe a swipe on the bridge of your nose. You want to look as if you just ran down the beach. And then quickly went back under your big umbrella.

AO: All right, you have your tan (or not), your hat, your red lipstick, your amazing sundress. What sort of shindig do you like to throw at this time of the year? And what's the de rigeur drink of the season? I long, personally, for my father's Pimm's cup.

CM: I love to have small groups of friends over, rather than giant parties. Spontaneous get-togethers and last-minute gatherings are fun in the summer. Well, anytime, really, but in the summer the days are especially long and the working stiff might be more prone to extending the weekend, or having little cocktail parties, even on school nights. You can keep it really simple, food-wise, because generally people don't want big heavy meals on warm nights. I planted something like nine or ten different heirloom tomato plants this year, so theoretically I should be able to throw together a tomato salad in a pinch. And that would be dinner, with a crusty bread, olives, cheese. Just scour your local farmer's markets and get what's really fresh. I make a salad that everyone always oohs and aahs over, it's simply chunks of fresh orange and red onion tossed up with a little red wine vinegar, nice olive oil, some of those dry-cured Moroccan olives, salt & pepper... it's deeeelicious, and everyone always asks for the recipe. So easy. Ooh, I really need to try a Pimm's Cup, I've never had one. I will try it this summer, I promise. A gin & tonic screams "summer" to me. Okay, maybe it doesn't scream "summer," it sort of calls out lazily from the reclining lawn chair. I love a crisp gin & tonic when the weather changes and a martini just won't stay chilled on a warm evening. Garnished with lemon or lime, I'm not a stickler. And if you want to get fancy, there are some interesting tonics out there that are worth trying, ones that use actual sugar instead of corn syrup. They can be pricey, but fun for a splurge and very tasty. Mmm, what else... Campari & soda with a good squeeze of fresh orange, very refreshing on a summer night. There's this old Italian red vermouth I'm in love with, Carpano Antica. Yum. Pour it over ice, garnish with a slice of orange. Adjust the brim of your stylish hat. Sip. It's one of those bitter-ish, off-sweet tastes. So good. I sometimes make a martini with gin and Antica, with a twist. You'll really have to come over and try one. OH, by the way, I DID get an orangey lipstick the other day, never thought I would in a million years. But I took my own advice. Plus, being very budget-minded I took in six empty MAC lipstick tubes, which--if you don't know this, you should--MAC recycles, and they give you a free lipstick for every six empties. SO, since it was free, I went out on a limb and got this very bright orange-y color, "So Chaud." Paired with their "Redd" lip liner, it's really smashing. It also looks great topping off other reds and browns, to brighten them up for the summer. The other day I wore it to an afternoon party and felt just like Grace Kelly in my pale aqua cocktail dress and sandals, if not quite as svelte.

AO: Enough said! I hereby declare this summer open! (Cuts ribbon, smashes champagne bottle.) And thank you, Ms. Mellor! You're welcome at Beauty Skool any old time!

book review by Miss Justine Brown

As I was reading Christie Mellor's delightful new book, You Look Fine, Really (HarperCollins), I stumbled across a sympathetic reference to Birkenstocks. Uh-oh. Now, Birkenstocks are the subject of one of my trademarked rants. I'll try to control myself here. To those of you who say "but they're so comfortable!" I have four words : they had better be. Matters between me and Those Sandals grew worse when my college boyfriend effected what you might call a Breakup Through Birkenstock. This boyfriend was familiar, doubtless too familiar, with Miss Brown's Birkenstock rant. So I knew it was no accident when one spring day he came home resplendent in shorts and a brand new pair of 'stocks. This was not a man who liked to buy shoes, especially $100 pairs of German sandals. It was okay though, he assured me. The shoes were so well built that he could wear them for the rest of his life. He fixed me with a meaningful glare and walked away, footgear flapping. For all I know, he is wearing them today. In the 'stocks. With socks.

Christie Mellor and I may never see eye to eye on this explosive subject. But that's all right, because we're in full agreement upon pretty much everything else. You Look Fine, Really offers big laughs and beauty advice-- not something we often get paired in women's magazines, for example. Actually, it offers big laughs as beauty advice. And, reminding us that beauty is just one part of the picture, Ms. Mellor turns to other crucial topics as well, such as cooking, parties, and play. I knew I had found a kindred spirit for sure when I came upon, reproduced in the book, the classic pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey set (mask included) that still hangs upon my wall.

"I say it's high time we do less, but with more style, " Mellor declares. She encourages us to abandon the dead-serious, frantic fight against time and pursuit of perfection so typical of our era. Instead we should find our essential style recipes and have fun doing it, never forgetting to consult our friends.

Many Skoolkids will know that I like to play Desert Island Essentials. What five beauty products would you want in your kit on Gilligan's Island? Number One on Mellor's list has got to be red lipstick. Now these red lipstick ladies are lucky, because to wear it well is to look totally pulled together. A slash of red lipstick makes a woman look properly made up. It even makes her look coiffed and dressed. Red lipstick is like an entire outfit-- it creates that much impact. Though I'm not sure it could compensate for total nudity on a supermarket run, say.

We get the lowdown on the author's wide collection of red lipsticks and a list of the best ones-- Mac always please the crimson lipstick crowd, but Mellor gives us some rarer examples too. Her collection makes me feel better about my own drawer full of nude lipsticks. For although I heartily endorse the red in principle-- if you're one of the lucky ladies who can wear red lipstick, you will look like a star from the golden age of Hollywood-- unfortunately, I've never found one that didn't make me look like a Russian doll, and thus my makeup and fashion routine is horribly complex. I think my red lipstick syndrome is a rare one, however. Be like Ms. Mellor-- try lots of different shades.They say there's a red for everyone.

Miss Brown at left, directly after applying red lipstick. Cute in principle, yes...

Another strong point is the way this book takes on the exercise riddle. If you're like me, going to the gym makes you feel like a hamster on its wheel or the subject-- horrors-- of an anatomy class, all reduced to bits. Work out this cut of meat, work out that cut of meat. It's unseemly. And then there are the strange outfits one encounters (if you are stuck with the gym, however, look on it as a chance to develop your superhero persona. Choose a name, such as Workout Woman. Develop a logo and affix it to you chest. Wear a mask and cape!). Mellor for her part urges us to find some reward in exercise by choosing something truly fun. And by, as she puts it, what our forebears would call "living"-- climbing stairs, going for walks instead of driving, and so on; incorporating exercise into our lives instead of sectioning off a part of the day for something we hate.

Several Beauty Skoolers have found an answer to the exercise riddle has come in the divine form of Argentine tango. No, you don't have to march around with a rose in your teeth. Unless you insist. The more authentic form of tango is sinuous and smooth. Men are men and women can star in their own romantic movie. No dress, no gesture is too extravagant. Where else is it normal to wave fans between dances and whisper behind them on the sidelines like characters out of Dangerous Liaisons? Tango is something you can practice occasionally, taking the odd class and attending the occasional ball (yes, ball)-- or you can become an obsessive, spend outrageous amounts on the world's best-looking shoes, move to Buenos Aires, and open a hotel for fellow dance pilgrims. Intriguingly, Argentine tango has experienced a resurgence in the last fifteen years, and every city in the world seems to boast an active tango scene. (But I digress. This topic deserves a post of its own, clearly.)

Mellor's writing has that quality that for Martin Amis defines good style: it joins in the war against cliche. She likes to take a familiar expression and then turn it on its head. For example, discussing wrinkles, Ms. Mellor writes: "Of course I adore those little crinkles in the corners of my eyes. I've earned those delightful little laugh lines. I did not, however, earn those lines that seem to be forming around the sides of my mouth, no idea where they came from." The book itself is a useful reference guide, teeming as it is with handy hints and techniques, such as facial massage and homemade cosmetics. There is some very sound advice on organizing parties and generally creating a festive atmosphere on the fly. There are survival tips-- real survival tips, such as how to make a compass by floating a needle on a leaf. This book is much more than just a pretty face: it's a pretty face with Girl Guide skills, recipes and charm galore. Class, Miss Brown has added "You Look Fine, Really" to the Skool curriculum. And yes, this will be on the final exam.

Beyond the Valley of the New York Dolls

2010-05-07T09:53:00.000-07:00

article and illustration by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

When I was twelve years old I wanted to be adopted by David Bowie. Not only did I want him for a dad, I wanted him as my mom too. I reasoned that along with the male protection of a father I would also score make-up tips that weren’t even on my mother’s radar. Plus there would be the added bonus of him bankrolling all the best cosmetics. I was completely infatuated with him and his Ziggy Stardust alter ego-- so I wasn’t sure how that whole parenting thing was going to work. I’m no Sigmund Freud, but I didn’t need a crash course on the psychosexual stages of development to tell me that this might be a bad idea-- eventually I kept it to a crush and abandoned the whole adoption fantasy.

David Bowie as Ziggy Stardust

But what was it about fellows and make-up? Not you, Elton. The initiated were far more interesting than their uptight conservative-looking counterparts. Maybe having been raised as a hippie kid I was predisposed to being offended by the powder blue leisure suit-clad Six Million Dollar man machismo of the mid 1970s. Sure, plenty of guys in my high school were sporting their softer side with long locks. Some had even taken to feathering their hair. Their behavior was nothing short of peacock-like: it wasn't unusual to see a comb protruding from the back pocket of a pair of Seafarer flared jeans.

Note, Skoolers, this is not the same cool little black comb the Fonz would use. No, this was a comb of a different color, literally. They were often bright green, pink, blue, etc. With a big flat handle and wide teeth, there were no secrets about the comb-size these boys were packing. The owner would reach his hand round to his back pocket and in one swift motion whip out his large- handled plastic instrument and with a flick of the wrist ‘re-feather’ first one side of the head then the other, returning the comb to its home. And perhaps because this hair care action seemed a tad on the prissy side, often these high school boys would compensate for it by walking in a more macho swagger or affect a deep Moose-like or Lee Majors tone in their voices right after the act. This topic doesn’t concern you Elton, put your hand down.

A 1970s teen dude in all his glory

If the comb had mistakenly been left at home the three-time forward shake of the head would suffice in reviving a feathered hairdo. But even that was a skill because you had to snap your head upright more vigorously than when bringing it forward in order to take full advantage of the aerodynamic wind-generating movement that produced the perfect effect. (Randy Rampage would use this maneuver in his punk heyday, particularly while performing on stage. Same move, different hairstyle). Probably the worst crime in male hair accessory vanity, though, was swapping out the bright colored comb for a big old hairbrush causing a rear protrusion of unnatural proportions resulting in justifiable high school hall snickering.

Nevertheless, you still wouldn’t find the guys at my high school preening beyond their hair. So I admired those rock stars who ventured into their moms’ big cosmetic bag. But let’s be clear here: as much as I enjoyed KISS army, their use of make-up was purely theatrical, and I got the sense that they did not continue on to the bar in their slap after a show. I was convinced, however, that the New York Dolls did not own make-up remover or that they weren’t even aware that there was such a thing. Instead I reckoned it just wore off, eventually, by natural causes, and was then reapplied. This seemed somewhat more committed and authentic, if not a little hazardous to the overall complexion. People often mistook Johnny Thunders' acne challenges as a result of drug abuse when, in fact, it was really a disregard for a good face scrub, exfoliater, toner and turnaround moisturizing cream at the end of a night. Skoolers, if only he’d taken the time. Respeck.

Both groups get bonus points for their ability to strut in towering platform heels. But before I get ahead of myself I must give a nod to Alice Cooper. He may not win any prizes for overall even application, but he does get points for expressive use of eyeliner. Unfortunately, points are deducted due to an unenthusiastic, not to mention creepy, hair presentation. Skool was out for summer before the lesson plan on Hot Oil Treatment was devised for Alice. KISS also scores low in the hairstyle arena-- way too much frizz. But Skoolers, this lesson today is not a KISS vs. Dolls comparison; instead it is an exploration of the aesthetics of influential rock dudes. Elton, please take your seat, maybe sit on the piano bench next to Liberace.

Which leads me back to David Bowie, idol, icon and not my dad-- unfortunately. Rice powder for the face and old school mascara-- the kind you wet and brush on, are just some of his tricks. An important tool in his cosmetic arsenal: eyeliner, kohl or otherwise... seriously, is there anyone who shouldn’t use it? But be careful with those lightning bolts down the face. Sure it looks classy on him, but it could look a tad garish on, say, Meatloaf.

And what of the punk scene? Well, our West Coast Canadian boys didn’t exactly embrace the use of make-up. Once in awhile a cheap eye pencil might get passed among band members before taking the stage but rarely among the green plaid Mac jacket-wearing crew. There was no chance of mistaking the Subhumans for the Braineaters. Or any punk bands fancy enough to own lipliner. In the east, Toronto to be exact, drugstores couldn’t get their shelves stocked fast enough with eyeliner for bands like the Viletones. And as the music got darker, moodier, gothier in the 1980s, so, too, did the use of make-up among some of our local bands.

Evidenced in the photo below is the guitarist of Der Mittlegang, a shadowy Vancouver group who occasionally paid homage to artists such as my old hero David Bowie by wearing creative face paint. I decided to marry him (not Bowie as Iman had already sunk her claws into him) as long as he promised to finance most of our cosmetics and get his own eye pencils.

Class, meet Mr Chris Nicol!

Confessions at Scissor-point

2010-04-24T03:22:00.000-07:00

by Miss Justine Brown

People often ask me how I get my striking and interesting hairdos. Here's the secret. Just like anybody else-- except when I'm in a maverick, DIY phase-- I go to the hairdresser. In other words, I succumb to intimidation. For who does not quail in the face of the hairdresser's fearsome array of weaponry: sarcasm, thinly veiled threats ("wouldn't your bangs look good just a little bit shorter?" or "I think eggplant is the shade for you!"), a gang of black-clad "assistants", various explosive chemical substances, and sharp objects galore.

And hairdressers are notoriously thin-skinned folk. You don't want to toy with them. From the moment you present yourself at the salon and set yourself down in front of the horribly accurate florescent-lit mirrors, you're on perilously thin ice. A glum seventeen-year-old with a broom will ask if you'd like a magazine, then go off to choose a suitable one. As you thumb through the pages of Longevity and Plastic Surgery News, you wonder if there's still time to run away. Too late-- the Great One has arrived, blades glinting.

It starts with the hairdresser's careful examination of the state of your locks. "Who cut your hair last time?" Answer this query very carefully, paying special attention to the tone of the question. "You did!" is seldom the correct response. Go with drunken pranksters. You were passed out cold, and drunken pranksters did your hair. Hairdressers have delusions of grandeur. They like to think they are setting the world to rights. And that they are fine artists. By no means try to dissuade them. Remember, your hair is at stake. Your hair. Or maybe an eye.

Hairdressers have their little whims. I am afraid of these. To take a mild example, I had one who loved to introduce grease into my hair as a final touch, along with a zigzag parting (it was "grunge"). Now, my hair doesn't need additional oiling, let us say. When, during my third appointment, I finally gathered the courage to turn down the goo. "Oh," he replied blithely, "I mixed it into the shampoo this time." Too late. Once again I scuttled back to my apartment with a plastic bag on my head and spent an hour in the shower.

To take a more disturbing example, consider the case of the Goth Hairdresser. (They manufacture these beings in Toronto, by the way.) Garnet was a hairdresser among hairdressers. He was short and wiry, with spike-heeled boots. His hair was black, his skin a deathly white. He was dressed in head to toe skin-tight black vinyl, bristling with studs. He wore his nails an inch long, pointed, and polished midnight blue. And Garrett was angry: angry at the drunken pranksters who had made a laughing stock out of me, to be sure. But he was really angry at all his former clients.

Stabbing the air with his pointiest scissors, Garnet re-enacted the series of dramatic hairdresser/client conflicts that had led up to this moment. The clients were unappreciative (stab).They were unbelievably ignorant (stab). They lacked respect for Garnet as an artist (stab stab stab). Not me! I knew an artist when I saw one. I stayed rigid, a smile fixed on my face. "And then," shouted the man with the scissors, sweeping them millimeters from my wide eyes, "She made a suggestion. I ordered her out. Out! Out of the salon! I don't care if your hair is half done!"

Some of these people have a weakness, though, and that weakness is money. They want paying; they want tips; they want you to return (the peons!). Try to play this card wisely. Without this one thing to dangle, you are nothing-- the merest lab rat. Don't push it, or you'll bring out the latent artist and your money will be as dust. Oh, and never, EVER agree to become a hair model.

A typical victim

I was lucky-- when I asked, they dismissed me, eyes rolling. (I had specified highlights and long layers. Bo-ring!) It was a lucky escape. My friend Christine, who had naturally curly hair and a flexible attitude, wound up with something called a "channel cut" in fire engine red: they cut her hair to about two inches in length and shaved a diagonal canal across her scalp. Two big asymmetrical poufs adorned her head. The whole effect was very poodle-esque. Aesthetic heaven-- and free of cost!

Sometimes these hysterical hair hackers can be distracted. Lull them with tales of home hair adventures. "Did I ever tell you about my friend Terry and his home colouring kit?" I interrupted Garnet, just as his sweat was beginning to form on his brow. Terry is a drummer. He liked to dye things-- his Kraft Dinner, for example. He liked to dye it green. Well, one Hallowe'en Terry had a gig to play, and he decided to dress up as a Zulu warrior. It wasn't going to be easy, since Terry is fair, blond and blue-eyed. All he had to work with was a leopard skin loincloth and two bottles of Clairol's blue-black hair dye. If it would work on his hair it would work on his skin, reasoned Terry, and with the help of a bandmate he set to work covering his body in dye.

Imagine, those of you who have any familiarity with hair dye, the discomfort of this. He sweated hard at the gig, but woke up with largely blue-black skin and hair. It took about ten days for the dye to rub off. As his blond hair grew out from below, the black stuff looked as if it was levitating above his head. The final kicker: the whiter his skin became, the more it was apparent that the dye had blackened every single tiny hair on his body. Look at your arm and picture this.

By this point in the story I had backed my way as far as the cash register, where I paid handsomely for Garnet's artistry, tipping something like fifty percent to placate him. As I write, I am acutely aware that I need a haircut. I can barely see the screen. My ends feel like straw. Haircuts in London cost at least $80-- and then there's the added expense. Someone to abduct me and tie me to a chair at the hair salon.

All this suffering at the hands of hairdressers may derive from some cosmic payback for the hair misery I myself have created. Take the case of my poor step-sister, Sophie. When we were sixteen I convinced her to bleach her hair. She looked cool at The Clash concert, I decided-- but she wanted her old hair back. Choosing Clairol's Light Ash Brown, I confidently applied it to her hair. It came out green-- not the green of punk rock girls, the kind you choose. Not a statement green, but a sort of swamp green-- a colour that loudly howls "mistake." Turns out taking bleached blond back to brown is one of the trickier feats in hair colouring. I know what you're thinking. Don't think at me like that! How dare you! There are special rules for us-- the hair artists.

Yearbook Committee

2010-04-05T02:22:00.000-07:00

Hello Skoolkids,

We are planning to round off the year with a review of Christie Mellor's latest book, You Look Fine Really, and we hope to include an interview with Miss Mellor as well. Then the Year Book Committee will treat us to an overview of the Skool year with photos and more. Stay tuned!

Super Models of Bad Behaviour

2010-03-05T09:44:00.000-08:00

by Mrs. Tami Thirlwell-Nicol

Models. The media is telling you that being one is everything and Tyra Banks is letting you know that you can be a model too. Yes, you transgendered Terry, and you too, legally blind Betty, easy on that catwalk there, girl. Holla! Move over Twiggy because Supersize Susan is hitting the runway as well. Missing a limb? Not a problem, if you can at least ‘smyze’ (that’s Tyra’s own word-- she’s trying to get into the Oxford English dictionary-- for ‘smiling with your eyes’). See? No one is left out. What a great inclusive world we live in.

Prior to this current Modelmania ladies were simply hired to wear clothes in order to sell them. In the years leading up to the 1960s it was a basic concept and yet a glamorous occupation. Just ask Cary Grant, who wished he could have been one. It ranked right up there with being an airline stewardess. Models didn’t just model clothes; they modeled a lifestyle. The proof of popularity was evidenced in the availability of the outfits one could buy for one's Barbie doll. Mini Chanel suits and Pucci print dresses were abundant for Barbie’s life as a high fashion model, and while you may have been able to snag a nurse's outfit, finding a neurogeneticist's uniform for Skipper was near impossible.

Barbie in head-to-toe Chanel circa 1960

These pioneer women would model for print ads or slink around in fashion house showrooms. They showed up, did their job and went home. At some point things shifted and the demure model world lead to the birth of edgy (role) models like Andy Warhol’s tragic pet, Edie Sedgewick. Twiggy stood out as one of the first Supermodels in the swinging sixties – while the word ‘anorexia’ was just a glimmer in a psychiatrist’s eye. She set the standard for a new frame of body reference: literally a stick figure. Suddenly women wanted to look like they hadn’t developed physically beyond the age of ten. It was the start of western women starving themselves and claiming to their friends, “What? Dieting? No, I just have a really speedy metabolism.” “Me too.” “Me too.”

In the 1970s fashion loosened up as the post-hippie influence offered tent-like caftans, super-flared trousers and blousy shirts and peasant skirts. Yet there were also tight zip jumpsuits and micro-sized swimwear and the rampant use of cocaine aided many models in their strict adherence to a size 2. The Supermodel flourished. Her celebrity status produced the Supermodel Ego. No longer was Mick Jagger seen with run-of-the-mill runway models. Now it was standard procedure for rock stars to be paired with ladies easily known by their first name only: Jerry, Iman, Linda, and so on.

The 1980s leaned towards all-American pageant style girls like Christie Brinkley and Carole Alt. But just as a squeaky clean Cheryl Tiegs was hanging up her Cover Girl crown towards the end of the decade, a new crew was moving in. It was the late 1980s and with the heady combination of fame and loads of powdery drugs a new breed of Supermodel was born into the fashion world. This was the dawning of the age of the Naughty Supermodel. Gone was the sophisticated, demure, white-gloved gal of the 1950s, the quirky swinging Chelsea girl of the 1960s and the au natural mellow lady of the 1970s. KickAss Kate Moss and her shit-disturbing counterpart Naomi Cambpell kicked them to the curb by the 1990s.

These amped-up models of bad behavior were clocked for all sorts of tantrums. They made most pop music divas look like Sunday school girls. Naomi Campbell, the female Mike Tyson, modeled air rage that soared to new heights.

Naomi Campbell draws her weapon

Meanwhile Moss, the human Hoover, had the unfortunate luck to be saddled with the moniker Cocaine Kate. But between rocking orange jumpsuits on the side of the highway and obtaining frequent flyer points at the local rehab, these two seemed to fare just fine. In fact, their careers seemed to flourish.

Still, I can’t help but feel sad for the generation that got short-changed with these self-obsessed girls as their role models. Where’s the cool factor? And what about the current breed of pop music stars that young ladies want to emulate-- well-adjusted types like Britney and her esteemed colleagues? When I was about twelve Suzi Quatro, rocker chick extraordinaire, was it! Skoolers, if you’ve never played air guitar in front of your bedroom mirror and lip-synced along to “48 Crash”, well, I just don’t know how you made
it this far.

Suzi Quatro rocks her famous leather jumpsuit.

At times her hair bordered on mullet country, but I let that slide. Joan Jett came in second. Here was another gal with a ‘don’t fuck with me’ sensibility who I found worthy as a role model. You can keep your Carole Kings and your Joni Mitchells. It was like choosing motor oil over alfalfa sprouts. You cannot run an engine with the latter.

Fortunately a few years later, Debbie Harry would become another role model for me which helped nurture my feminine side and reminded me that I was not, in fact, a member of the Ramones. Nor was I a member of the Runaways for that matter. She illustrated that a girl could still look tough and cool in a skirt and heels. It was all in the styling and attitude. Nancy Spungen? Not a good role model -- unless you are Courtney Love. And Courtney Love? Not a good role model – unless you are Britney Spears. You get the idea. Call me old-fashioned but how did the skank factor get turned up to eleven? It’s Pop Stars and Models Gone Wild these days. Where’s the freshness? This shit is past its expiration date. Can we get a little lady-like behavior over here please? Reminder: cell phones are for talking to people not for hurling at people. And put some underwear on for God’s sake! Yeesh.

Meanwhile I don’t recall ever looking up to a fashion model for life skills but Tyra has appointed herself to that position, doling out free advice for young women on everything from how to walk and talk to how to psychoanalyze your best friend. And then call her out.

You can’t see it but I’m ‘smyzing’ right now. Actually no, I’m smyking – it’s my own hybrid of smirking with my eyes. I do a lot of smyking these days. I’m hoping it delays the deepening of the parentheses around the mouth, deep crinkly laugh lines around the eyes, and increases the appearance of fine cynicism by 73% in four to six weeks. And the smyke or even the smyze actually makes one appear worldly and wise, like you have your wits about you, a must-have expression for any Supermodel. After all, it’s a fierce jungle out there.