Making It Up as I Go Along Read online

  mariankeyes.com, April 2013.

  My Chanel Nail Varnish Museum

  Let me tell you about my Chanel nail varnish museum. For as long as I can remember I’ve had a thing for Chanel – not the suits and the couture gowns, I hasten to add; sadly I’ll never be that woman – but the cosmetics. Even in my twenties (as I’ve already told you), when I was totally skint, my lipstick was always Chanel. Something about the sleek cylinder with the iconic interlocking Cs elevated my life beyond its shabby reality, where I spent my rent money on wine, my wardrobe was missing a door and every night at 2 a.m. my upstairs neighbour strapped woks to his feet and tap-danced loudly enough to wake the dead.

  Eventually my circumstances improved and I was able to embrace other products from the Chanel oeuvre, particularly the foundations, but their nail varnishes didn’t feature on my radar because of my very disappointing nails. (Short, weak and a bizarre selection of shapes, as I mentioned in the previous piece.)

  However, one November I was in Henri Bendel’s in New York, in the throes of a bout of MITHness (mad in the head-ness), where the world seemed like a smoking, post-apocalyptic landscape.

  Suddenly I saw something so exquisite I thought my eyes would burst – it was a nail varnish. It stood alone on a plinth, radiating a greeny-blue beauty powerful enough to light up the planet.

  You know when people use the phrase ‘I fell on it’ to imply that they were extremely keen to get the thing? Well, I literally fell on it. I threw my body over it, like I was shielding a baby from gunfire, because I was so afraid that someone else might get there before me.

  A chat with the salesperson established that it was a limited edition Chanel nail varnish called Nouvelle Vague, and Himself was so relieved to see me excited about something that he bought it for me. And right away I was in the grip of another addiction.

  I’ve no end of addictions: alcohol, sugar, Twitter, sleep, box sets, spending money … I could probably get addicted to paper bags if I put a bit of effort into it (white? Manila? Patterned? With handles? Without? Flat? Or with a fold-out base?).

  Addiction is often called the disease of More – because when we experience something pleasurable our brain produces dopamine (‘the happy hormone’). So if you’re an addict like me and you find something you like, you’ll keep replicating the experience in the hope of generating fresh hits of delightful dopamine.

  The long and the short of it was, I needed more Chanel varnishes, and mercifully family and friends helped out. Each little bottle marked an occasion: my mammy gave me Vendetta as reimbursement for paying her milkman while she was in hospital with pneumonia; Rita-Anne handed over Azure as thanks for minding the Redzers; and Caitríona bought me Atmosphere in Rome airport because she was flying back to New York and I was going home to Dublin and who knew when we’d see each other again?

  I spent (and still do) an unholy amount of time on eBay, yearning after discontinued limited editions as rare as gold dust. However, I was badly bruised by my first – and only – auction, where I battled for Skyline (from the Bleu Illusion collection, but hey, you probably knew that). I live-tweeted the bidding and frankly I thought I had it in the bag – but I was outbid at the very last second (and it was literally the very last second: people explained to me later about Sniper and other such fiendish jiggery-pokery). So I limped away and now I simply hint heavily to my loved ones about which discontinued varnishes I crave.

  Of course, there are always the new ones arriving ‘on counter’. And something incredibly amazing happened to me in May 2015. I’d been doing a beauty column for nearly a year for Irish Tatler and I’d been sent a lot of athlete’s foot ointment and acne-banishing face washes, but nothing at all from Chanel. One morning I was working away when the doorbell rang and Himself dealt with it. Then I heard him coming up the stairs and I assumed he’d taken delivery of a dandruff-banishing shampoo or something equally unthrilling. But when he came into the room he looked ashen, and when I enquired as to what was making him seem so shocked, he silently held up a small black cardboard bag, with little rope handles. A small black cardboard bag, with the word CHANEL written in white.

  ‘… no …’ I uttered through bloodless lips.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Quick!’ I commanded, my lips rubbery and disobedient. ‘Quick, show me!’

  Together we tore at the bag and out tumbled FOUR CHANEL NAIL VARNISHES!!!!! Yes! The Summer 2015 Méditerranée Collection, and even now, remembering the beauty of the colours makes me feel warm and happy! We shrieked with excitement and jumped around the room and I shouted, ‘I EXIST!!!’ (I’m not exactly sure what I meant, something to do with Chanel acknowledging that I was worthy of their nail varnishes meant I felt endorsed as a human being.)

  Then! The bell rang again! And Himself and I exchanged haunted looks.

  ‘Is it the Chanel man?’ I asked. ‘Back to take the nail varnishes off me?’

  ‘Feck,’ Himself uttered. ‘Maybe they were meant for Liz-next-door?!’

  You see, in a bizarre coincidence, Liz-next-door is also a beauty editor, and she’s a full-time real one, instead of an enthusiastic amateur like me, and she gets LOTS of fabliss stuff and I know this because sometimes we take in deliveries for her.

  ‘Don’t answer,’ I said.

  ‘I won’t answer,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not giving them back,’ I said. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You’re not giving them back,’ sez he. ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law. We’ll just barricade ourselves in here and refuse to surrender.’

  As it transpired, the varnishes really were intended for me, but the fact that I was willing to break the law is a sign of how the Chanel-lust sends me insane.

  Over time, by all these different means, I’ve built up a fairly sizeable collection but – this is where I might lose you – I rarely wear them: they’re far too precious and I’m afraid of using them up. I get my pleasure simply from looking at them.

  But I was embarrassed by my carry-on. Until Himself suggested I turn my thinking on its head and regard them as precious objets (French word) and not as nail-pigmenting workhorses. It was a eureka moment and shortly afterwards came the first mention of the word ‘museum’.

  The museum is housed in a handbag (not a Chanel one – I’ve never owned one; like I said, I’ll never be that woman) which lives in the bottom of my wardrobe, and I now have about forty exhibits. (Actually, I’m lying. The number is closer to sixty, but an addict always tries to downplay the full extent of the problem.)

  In my more whimsical moments I suggest taking the museum on the road and displaying it in parish halls around the country, so that everyone can get to marvel at its beauty. Each varnish would stand alone on a tastefully lit column, bearing a short description of its provenance. And of course, on my deathbed, I will bequeath the collection to the Irish people. Or the V&A. I’m still deciding.

  When my friends bring their little girls over, there’s always a great clamour to see the museum, so I take out The Handbag and delicately unveil selected bottles and in a hushed voice say curatory-sounding things like, ‘Here’s a very rare blue, dated Summer 2013, which I think you’ll appreciate.’ But their eager little hands start grabbing the exhibits and pulling them from their boxes and then – then! – they sometimes have the audacity to try them on!

  Before I know it bottles are upended and boxes are being stood on and I start snatching the varnishes back from reluctant little hands and I snap, ‘Thank you.’ In a high, tight voice, I say, ‘Stop crying, Felicity. That’s enough of the mus
eum for today, girls. Let’s move on to the home bingo kit.’

  Some people go to art galleries to receive an infusion of beauty, for other people it’s elaborate gardens, but I can’t tell you the happy, happy hours I’ve had, lining my varnishes up on my bed, sometimes colour-coding them, sometimes acting out West Side Story where a pink falls in love with an orange, and on those joyous occasions when I receive a new varnish, instagramming a David Attenborough-style documentary as it seeks to integrate into the herd.

  Yes, we take our pleasures where we can.

  First published in the Sunday Times Style, April 2015.

  Hairy Legs

  Bad hair days. And I’m not talking about my head, I’m talking about my shins. Bad, oh yes, bad. How bad? Well, the fact of the hirsute matter is that if I’d been born in a warm country, like Australia, I’d have had to emigrate at the first opportunity. How could I survive in a country where people have to wear shorts on a regular basis? If I couldn’t wear opaque tights, thereby covering the shame – yes, shame – of my hairy legs, I wouldn’t be able to leave the house. I am so fortunate to have been born in a cold, rainy country.

  But sometimes – like if it’s the two days that constitute the Irish summer, or if I have the misfortune to be going away to a balmy clime – I’m forced to engage with my hairiness.

  Which brings me to waxing. Yes. Wonderful stuff. It hurts but it’s wonderful. Whenever I have it done, I return home with a skip in my step, feeling light and liberated and prone to twirling in circles, a joyous look on my face.

  But a conspiracy of misinformation surrounds waxing. Ask anyone how long it lasts and they’ll assure you that you’re looking at six glorious weeks of super-smooth legs. But this is a blatant lie! It doesn’t last six weeks. Not on me. From the moment I get it done, I watch my legs like a hawk, I actually patrol them, and I’m lucky if I get a week out of it before the pesky little blighters start poking their hairy heads up again. Sometimes I swear I can actually see them growing – like that cute moment when the chicken breaks his shell. And then what can I do? I’m semi-hairy. Enough hairs to have to return to the opaque tights, but not enough hairs to make another waxing worthwhile.

  And while we’re at it, here’s another lie: the hairs get weaker and softer the more you get waxed. On no, they don’t. Not on me. I’ve been having it done for twenty years and my leg hairs are as hardy and lush now as they were the first time I had it done.

  And shaving? Strictly forbidden! Shaving undoes all the ‘good work’ of waxing, and there are beauty therapists out there who’ll say it’s no wonder my hairs never get weaker if I alternate waxing with shaving. But at times I’ve had no choice! I’ve wanted to be waxed – indeed pleaded to be – but was told that my hairs were ‘too short’ and was turned out, mildly hairy, on to the street. What could I do?

  However, even when I have a close, close shave, my shins look like a sexy man’s jaw … sort of blue … the stubble lurking beneath the skin just waiting for their chance. Which begins approximately half an hour later. Nasty black little bristles start poking their pushy way out into the world, like something from a horror film, penetrating through the tight-knit shield of my opaque tights. At times, with lower deniers, even laddering them …

  A close friend (she agreed to speak to me only on the condition that she not be identified) had her leg hairs lasered. ‘Lasered’ is a nice word. It sounds modern and clean and sort of Star Trekky. But what it really means is burnt, and by all accounts is more excruciating than childbirth.

  My anonymous friend said she nearly puked from the pain, despite having managed to lay her hands on some anaesthetic cream. Not only that but they lasered her knee with such enthusiasm that it left a permanent scar, which then had to be microdermabrasioned away.

  Lasering is also very expensive. And time-consuming: they pretend you only need one session (liars, liars, they’re all liars!), but it’s like therapy, you’ve to make a commitment for months and months and months and months.

  Now, what if I was to admit that I was worried about more than the hair on my legs? What if I were to … let’s see … admit I was worried about, ooh … the hair on the small of my back? For example. Just theoretically. Would other women be grateful? Would they say, ‘Thank you for articulating our secret shame, Hairy-Backed Girl’?

  But even if they did, would they mean it? I suspect it would be like Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire when he wrote his manifesto slagging off his job. Yes, everyone applauded him and said, ‘Nice one, mate! Thanks for saying the unsayable.’ But then what happens? Yes! Next day he gets the sack.

  The thing is that girls aren’t meant to be hairy – apart, of course, from the hairs on our heads and eyes, which are meant to be long and lustrous and luscious. We are meant to be very hairy in these departments, but otherwise entirely bald (a concession can be made for eyebrows, so long as they are well behaved and know their place).

  Why? Why is hair good in one place and very, very bad in another? (Because upkeep on both keeps women exhausted and demoralized and without energy to get promoted? Do men expend time and money and anxiety combatting bad hair days? Just a thought …)

  Wouldn’t it be great if we didn’t have to worry about any of this? If we all decided that we were going to stride forth together, hairy and proud? Look at all the time we’d save. And money. And energy. And worry. Wouldn’t it be great?

  First published in Marie Claire, August 2006.

  Lasering

  I had my hairy legs lasered and it was a resounding success! Previous to this I have had the hairiest legs in Christendom. Loads of times I’ve met people and they’ve said, ‘Oh no, I bet my legs are hairier than yours, mine are REALLY hairy,’ then I unveil my furry limbs and they usually swallow hard and step back and say, ‘Riiiight, I see what you mean …’

  I’ve had them waxed for decades, but the upkeep has always been a full-time job – about twenty minutes after I’ve had them waxed, they start to grow back.

  So I went to have them lasered, and in all fairness they did warn me that one go wouldn’t cure me, but even after one go there has been a DRAMATIC lessening, a great deforestation. I can’t tell you just how astonished I was, because NOTHING works for me, not fake tan, not Restylane, not even automatic doors. (I often have to jump around on the pad in front of the door for some time before it finally notices me.)

  But this worked. Christ, though, the PAIN. I admit I’m a whinger, but I’ve never found leg waxing to be painful – in fact I find it quite relaxing, and I really unsettle beauticians, who say I’m an oddball, which I am, but not in the way they mean. So I was feeling quite cocky before my laser patch test – and within moments I was beaten. It was incredibly unpleasant, like being burnt over and over again, and I was trembly and nauseous for ages after it ended.

  So I went on the interwebs, oh yes I did, and found a dodgy site willing to sell me Emla (local-anaesthetic cream) without a prescription. I put in my details and gave them my credit card number and wondered if I’d just been royally swizzed.

  Then maybe ten days later, this massive box, a veritable CRATE, amigos, arrived, laden with jumbo-sized tubes of Emla, and joy abounded.

  Except for Himself. Joy didn’t abound for him, because he is naturally cautious. ‘Tubes, I grant you,’ he said. ‘Big ones, yes, I admit they’re big ones, and lots of them, and they DO say Emla on the outside, but it mightn’t be Emla on the inside, it might be some useless stuff that does nothing.’

  But I had faith. Also, a little bit of trepidation. Because there’s a reason Emla’s only given on prescription. Caitr�
�ona, who is a nurse, told me that people have DIED from overdosing on Emla, because it shuts down blood circulation.

  But anyway! I was willing to take the risk, to walk on the wild side a little, and when the day of my second go of lasering dawned, I closeted myself in my bedroom, with a new tube of cling film, and started glooping the Emla on to my legs and it went fecking everywhere, on to the carpet and then – disaster! – I was squeezing the last bit out of a tube and a big lump shot straight into my right eye and started stinging like bejaysis, which is very wrong when you think about it, because it’s meant to ANAESTHETIZE me, not sting me.

  I rushed to the bathroom, trying not to spill any more of the cream off my leg, and started splashing cold water like mad into my eye, and I was worried because later that day I was going to London, for a big photo shoot the following day, with hair and make-up and stylists and art directors, and what if my right eye was like a tomato? I’d have to incorporate a wink into my look. And, mes amies, I am NOT a winker.

  I splashed cold water into my eye and splashed cold water into my eye and wondered which saint was the one you prayed to, to banish bloodshot eyes. Mam would know, but I couldn’t get hold of her, so I went back to glooping the gear on my legs, then – and this was tremendously satisfying – wound loads and loads of cling film around my legs, thus sealing the cream and letting it take full effect.

  For about two hours I crinkled around the house, then I had to try to get my jeans on over the cling film without dislodging it, which was harder than it sounds; then, after splashing one last handful of water at my eye, I went to the lasering place.