I think I have problem. An addiction even. It’s getting worse and worse, taking up more and more of my time. My friends are starting to notice it, even strangers…
And not just genetically. In fact, my girliness levels are reaching dangerous highs; in a clichéd, rom com, ridiculously stereotyped way.
I’m wearing heels so that my insoles ache, baking cupcakes and cookies and trying complicated recipes, dying my hair to suit current trends, braiding my friends’ hair and (worst of all) doing complicated nail art.
WHO AM I?!
Looking back, I can trace a few negative influences, several things that pushed me from full-on female to gushing girl. The first was Pinterest. Oh Pinterest: crack for girls. A colourful collective of pretty dresses, furniture, pictures, shoes, jewellery, food porn, make-up tips, hair do’s and nail art – and scrapbooking! (After all, Pinterest is a virtual scrapbook.) Joining that site provided me with constant inspiration for girliness. Day after day, shoving girly inspiration in my face and making my plain nails and simple pony tail seem so, so inadequate. My modest looks were suddenly… lazy.
The second was discovering The Beauty Department, and website with beautiful pictures, inspirations and worst of all, TIPS.
Jerusha introduced me to this site, so she gets the blame for my consequent addiction. I’m sorry to be so blunt but they say the truth sets you free.
Starting my dream job as a features writer at Marie Claire didn’t help either. For one thing, being constantly surrounded by beautiful, effortlessly stylish women makes you want to up your game. Another is the fashion floating by and the sheer volume of heels in the building. These women are impressive: their heels are normal people takkies. My Croc wedges (the most loyal shoes ever, they even survived an unplanned hike to Cape Point once) suddenly didn’t cut it anymore.
There are also three people to blame. I’m sorry girls, but you are the dealers and I, the hapless drugee. Mom, you took me clothes shopping and got me my beautiful jelly bean pink heels and matching clutch. Minette taught me how to do a French plait, and we spent a weekend away indulging rampantly in braid (I even told the boyfriend I wish I could braid his hair. His response? “Sis.”)
And Jerusha. My dear friend. You showed me nail art is not only possible for real life people, but gave me my first hit. You are, perhaps, the worst of all.
I’ve never done drugs (seriously. I’m not even a little bit cool) but if this is anything like the movies paint a heroine addiction, it’s not going to end well.
Is there a rehab for turning into a cliche?