I am a bit of a stereotypical girl in many respects (well, if you ignore the fact that the term ‘girl’ usually implies someone considerably younger than me).
However, it’s fair to say that I am pretty girly; I like the colour pink, I own many pairs of impractical but gorgeous shoes and I long for any opportunity to put on a frock. I coo over kittens, puppies and babies and I adore films where the girl gets the guy in the end and they both live happily ever after. Although it is fair to say that I also know that this is unlikely to happen and the girl is probably going to end up fat, pissed off and wearing a delightful pair of testicle shaped earrings. Oh and for the record, if you type the term ‘testicle shaped earrings’ into Google, the Tiffany and Co website comes up as a sponsored link. Genius. I wonder if it’s a new line that they are working on?
Anyway, back to the girlyness: One of my female friends is constantly worried when we go out together that people might think we are lesbians. She’s not homophobic, she’s just heartbroken that she will never be anything other than the butch one. Whilst I’m flouncing about in a polka dot dress, floral skirt or cat patterned jumper (yes, really), you can’t get her out of her jeans. Erm, just to clarify, not that I want her out of her jeans, I’m not an actual lesbian.
She often has the last laugh though; we both used to work together and one day we popped out during our lunch break to buy something at a local supermarket, her in a sensible trouser suit, me in a flouncy pink summer dress.
Turns out that if you wear a dress rather than trousers, half of Brighton will cop an eyeful of your arse when a big gust of wind catches you unawares, much to the amusement of
the smug, sniggering, trouser suited bitch your friend.
I am more of a cushions and cupcakes sort of girl than a canoeing and Carlsberg sort of girl but I am ashamed to say that in some critical ‘being a girl’ areas, I fail really badly.
1) Doing hair
I am dreadful at creating anything resembling a hairstyle that is not the result of what happens when I turn my head upside down and blast it with a hair dryer for about three and a half minutes. I started growing my hair naively believing that it would be so much easier to manage. I would be able to put it up in a sophisticated bun, casual ponytail or cute plait. Sadly the only thing I can manage is getting my barnet to look like a cross between a character from the Addams Family and what happens when you leave a three year old alone with a dolls world styling head and a pair of scissors.
People are always surprised to hear that I hate glitter. “Really? You seem like a glittery sort of person” is the usual response and I can see why people might think that, I should like it; it’s sparkly and colourful and shimmery. It is very me and I might like it if the bastard stuff did not get absolutely everywhere. One Christmas card covered in glitter and you’re still finding it around the house in March. It totally overstays its welcome.
And what are those sneaky glitter face moments all about? It’s August, you haven’t been near glitter since a run in with a Christmas ornament eight months previously. You’ll be in a pub, minding your own business, thinking summery thoughts when suddenly, out of the blue:
“You’ve got a bit of glitter on your cheek, love”
“WHAT? Where did that come from? How? Why the fuck is it stuck to my face?”
And it’s not fussy, oh no, glitter is not gender specific even the toughest, manliest men can experience a facial glitter-glimmer moment and no one ever knows where the bloody stuff comes from.
3) Wearing nail-polish
I love wearing nail polish. I particularly love wearing it on my toes and freaking out the cat who considers the painted nails to be deadly prey and tries to attack them whenever I’m wearing it. Unfortunately, I’m not very good at painting my nails and usually end up painting the tips of my fingers, most of my toes and half the coffee table at the same time. I don’t understand why it’s so hard, it’s fundamentally colouring in and staying within the lines and I learnt to do that a long time ago but the moment that I pick up a nail polish brush I lose all hand eye co-ordination. Someone needs to invent the manicure equivalent of masking tape for crack handed clumsy painters such as myself.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I will boogie to a bit of Beyonce as much as the next person and, being a Jolene, I can country and western with the best, but my heart really belongs to the rockier end of the music spectrum. My first music love was probably Guns ‘n’ Roses, although, if I’m honest, that was more than likely inspired by my 14 year old self’s love for a 14 year old boy in an orange Guns ‘n’ Roses t-shirt.
He liked them, I liked him and as only a 14 year old girl’s logic can dictate, I bought ‘Appetite for Destruction’ on tape in order to make him like me. I listened to the tape on my walkman when walking to and from school and on my cassette player in my bedroom in order to learn all the lyrics and give the illusion of being a Guns ‘n’ Roses fan. Of course this statement is not only a confession of my teenage actions, I am also giving away my age by referring to historic artefacts such as tapes, walkmans and cassette players.
5) Wearing make up
I can not leave the house without a little bit of slap for fear of someone saying “Are you okay? You don’t look very well” to which I have to say “Yes, this is just how I look. It’s my face.” But anything other than a touch of face powder and a bit of blusher and I’m screwed. I try really hard but I can’t do make up. I can’t put lipstick on without a mirror and even with a mirror it’s a bit touch and go. I went out for dinner with Brad a few weeks ago, thought I’d make an effort and dress up, tried to do some sexy, vampy eye make up. Not only was each eye done slightly differently (a fact that Brad thought was very funny to point out on more than one occasion: Minus 100 boyfriend points), I couldn’t tell that each eye was different because I can’t close both eyes at the same time to check that the make up matches and by the end of the night I looked as though I’d done a few rounds with Mike Tyson. Disaster.
Okay, so I can’t put on make up or paint my nails and my glitter phobia is really rather extreme, but I suppose it could be worse…
… I could be a boy.