High Maintenance

As so often happens, I joined the conversation midway through.

‘It really was just perfect. There were two of them working on me. One on my hands, one on my feet.’ She wiggled fluorescent pink tipped fingers. ‘And then after that, a third person came along to sort my face. My God. Talk about bliss.’ She closed her eyes and put down her mug of coffee… remembering.

In many ways, I have a lot in common with the friend who was holding court at coffee time today. From occupation to preoccupation, hang-ups to hang-outs. But this was where the common ground ended. Visualising myself in her shoes – or rather, her lack of shoes as the pedicure progressed – all I could think of was the glimpse I get of the workshop when I leave my car in for its annual service. Visualising myself spending an afternoon at the beautician’s, I imagined being lifted high into the air on something approximating to the dentist’s chair… with expanding ramps beneath me for the mechanics and their implements. I imagined the equipment and its effect… buffing, sanding, polishing. Scrapes being polished out, cracks being plastered over. Rough edges trimmed away, and ageing paintwork brightened up. As the picture developed, details sketched themselves in: the workshop mingled with a scene from ‘Grease’ as the beauticians appeared in pink or purple overalls, with the obligatory splashes of oils and polishes here and there and, artfully of course, on their faces. I imagined feeling more and more restless and self-conscious as the ‘three month service’ continued, thinking of all the other things I could have been doing, and being impatient to get back on the road when it was time to drive away from the service ramp of beauty.

Is this what it means, I wondered, when people talk about a woman being ‘high maintenance’? That, quite literally, a high level of maintenance services is required to keep her happily roadworthy? But in the case of a woman (or indeed a man: I don’t want to be sexist about this, and I do hear that metrosexual ‘noughties’ man likes his occasional facials and manicures) when compared to a car, how do you figure out when she’s due for her next servicing appointment? Does a little light come on? A warning buzzer sound? A car needs a service roughly either once every year, or after every 10,000 miles. So what is it for a woman? Every three months or after every thousand irritations?

As the idea took form, and the narrative about polishes and exfoliants and under-eye fingertip massage therapies trickled on in the background like a luxuriant verbal water feature, I tried to grapple further with the whole concept of what my life would be like if I were a high maintenance female. I imagined the oil change service. The massages with different unguents and lubricants… bodily, to encourage the dissipation of cellulite, facially to diminish any incipient puffery. Months later, perhaps, it would be the turn of the brake fluid. What would that be…? Maybe a consultation on one’s entire skincare regime, to slow down the ageing process? I could almost hear the conversation. ‘You wash your face in the morning, you use toner and moisturiser and then… dear God…’ (the skincare mechanic shudders in her pink boilersuit) ‘… you put on some makeup and then in the evening, you… you… you use a wipe to take it all off again?’ It would be urgent. I knew it. Alarms would be sounding and the serious-looking head mechanic would be called over. I’d feel ashamed as they prescribed a range of essential (and expensive) treatments and scrubs and creams and serums and emulsions and milk-to-power-cleansers and balms and solutions. If I bought them all I’d get a free gift and I’d arrive home – I could picture it right there – bewildered and scrubbed and laden-down and just slightly ashamed of how wrong I’d been getting things.

Months would pass. I’d try to use the shelf-full of miracles they’d sold me last time. But a wrinkle or a spot or a shadow would materialise and I’d know it was time. I’d go back. I’d hear it. ‘Oh dear.’ I’d recognise it instantly, even though I hadn’t heard it before… the beautician’s equivalent of that noise the mechanic makes when your car has just gone out of warranty three weeks previously, but something has gone terribly wrong and he’s going to tell you that the remedy’s not going to be cheap. It was suddenly getting serious… time to replace some filters. Engine oil filter. ‘Try this microdermabrasion home kit. It really does work smoothing miracles.’ Air filter. ‘And how about this dermal refinisher? Smoothe away up to two years and give yourself a fresh base for a whole new makeup identity.’ Wiper blade replacement. ‘Have you thought about your arms? Your legs? As the weather brightens up, maybe it’s time to blast those bingo wings? Storm that cellulite?’

Dear God, I thought. I was starting to get anxious now… just how many aesthetic technicians would it take to make me fit to be seen if things got to this stage? I could feel my shoulders tense as the team delivered blow after blow. In my imagination, I was going to be on that elevated ramp for the rest of my life… only no-one would notice me growing old, as I’d have been buffed and botoxed beyond recognition. Fuel filter. ‘Would you like to try this cream? When massaged around the lips with just the tip of your little finger, it reduces the fine lines which can make your lipstick bleed.’ Power steering fluid. ‘Have you considered this resurfacing primer? It creates the perfect, smoothed base for your make-up.’ Transmission fluid? ‘This bioglycolic resurfacing body lotion will make your arms and legs gleam with smoothness and health.’ Engine coolant? ‘Look – what do you think of this skin responsive cooling cream? It’s ideal in the winter, when your skin can react with irritation to the changing temperatures as you move in and out of centrally-heated buildings.’

This was getting scary – my imagined time on the ramp of pampering. Serious. My heartbeat was quickening as I sat there. I was afraid to touch my coffee. This was a workplace breaktime and I was only visualising the torments of the beautician’s chair… and already I was almost shaking with the anxiety born of aesthetic inadequacy. I was thinking ahead to 45,000 miles. To things like spark plugs (‘facial illuminators?’), distributor caps (‘glycolic refinishing serums?’), brake fluid (‘evolutive derma-pods to slow down those dark circles under your eyes, madam?’) or the battery itself (‘we can do a lunchtime non-invasive liposculpt if you’re interested?’) I didn’t even want to think about the inspection of my brake pads or my timing belt. Surely at 60,000 miles I might be permitted just to retire… to rust in peace?

I was imagining it all, of course. I had to remind myself, with a deep breath and a final gulp of coffee. My mind had grasped a detail of the dialogue, applied its usual rather-too-literal take on things and rushed off with it, chuckling quietly and slightly nervously, to stretch the idea out until it became thin as the thinnest wisp of paper. Teased. Convoluted. Tortured. By the time the teabreak ended, my companions were wondering why I’d gone so quiet and was looking so worried, and I was feeling so silently agitated that it was almost a relief to get back to work. But a serious point remained. Is this what it is to be a woman nowadays? That we’re empowered. Strong. Equal, up to a point at least, with those wondrous creatures: men. But really… it’s all about the looks. The appearances. That we really do need to take time out of our busy work and hometime schedules to make sure that our appearances are living up to their deceptive ideal standards. To pamper ourselves, with all the ludicrous implications of the self-application of a well known brand of diaper that that overused expression holds, and with all the subtext of necessity, that this so called self-rewarding is just as much necessity as treat?

No matter how well a woman does for herself in life – in her family or in her career – no matter who she is or what she does, she’ll be judged by her looks. First impressions count for anyone, of either gender, but if you’re a woman you have to ensure that you’re not looking old or unfashionable or tired – even if all three are the case. You have to make sure you have your interval servicing programme as prescribed. And if that takes several aestheticians at once, then so be it. After all: we’re living in a world where one of the greatest icons of female aspirational beauty is most notable for her beautiful eyes (crowned with false lashes), her lovely smile (complete with capped and whitened porcelain veneered teeth) and her fabulous, luxuriant hair (styled with what are thought to be the most expensive extensions of any celebrity). To her great credit, this well-known personality has not followed suit with Eliza Dootlittle-style elocution lessons, but instead has retained her authentic Geordie accent… but still, as the role-model for so many, she’s the perfect example of the almost ludicrous extent of the engineering and resurfacing needed to be considered beautiful. She makes it clear that actually, any other problems you have in your life (mediocre talent, a troubled marriage) don’t really matter; that even if your life is as ‘weak, limp, lifeless…’ as a head of overstyled, unextended hair, so long as you look good, it’ll all be all right. Even it that does mean a few hours on the beauty ramp being buffed, polished and refinished every now and then.

Come on girls. Let’s say it. Because we’re worth it.