DARE TO BARE

Hello World. This is the story of the Ugly Duckling. Once upon a time there lived a Duckling who, that’s right, you guessed it, was U-G-L-Y. Well, not terribly ugly but just made some bad decisions… mainly to do with haircuts, make-up and body piercings (probably because she was strongly under the influence… of All Saints).

Gradually throughout her life and with the help of her long-suffering friends she learnt the error of her ways, grew her hair, wore less make-up and took out her belly ring. As the years rolled by and many moons waxed and waned, she stretched her wings, lengthened her neck and turned into a beautiful goose. Well, who wants to be a swan?! Geese are much more fun. HONK.

You may be wondering why I am destroying this most beloved Fairy Tale with my whimsical parenthesis; I myself am wondering the same thing. Nevertheless, there is a reason… however convoluted it may be.

I recently met up with an old school friend, we used to catch the bus together and before you ask, no, he is not ‘Nick Carter’ from tampon-gate. (For those of you who are not up to speed with tampon-gate please refer to my first blog ‘The Aftermath’… it is a treat…)

ANYWAY, as we were getting down to our Sunday treat of Nachos from ‘Spoons –can’t go wrong with Nachos from ‘Spoons- he looked up and said something along the lines of ‘Man, you wear a lot less make-up than you used to!’

And he was right. During my formative years I trowelled on LAYERS of mascara of the black and blue variety, possibly accompanied with the odd bit of white eyeliner and pink eye-shadow. More mascara than should ever be used on one human being at a time. Don’t get me wrong, I thought I looked the BOMB at the time; however, looking back at photos it was more spider-eyes than sparkly-eyes.

A prime example of Spider-Eye.

Some may call it vanity. Others may say that it was because I thought I looked like an ugly teenage boy without make up. With pigeon tits and a mushroom haircut. Again, there is a reason for this.

When I was about 13, my parents’ divorce was coming through and Dad was having us on the weekends. Being an avid ‘Friends’ fan I asked him to escort me to the hairdressers so I could get the infamous ‘Rachel Cut’. Dad happily agreed and soon enough I found myself sat in the chair at Tony’s. That’s right, Tony’s. Not Tony and Guy. Tony, singular. Dad had brought me to the barbers.

Innocently, unwittingly, naively and every other synonym that describes not having an effing clue, I casually asked for the ‘Rachel Cut’ and Tony agreed. And got to work. Cutting me a mullet.

That’s right, I had a mullet. A MULLET. At 13 years of age. Gone were the dreams of Jennifer Aniston’s locks. Staring back at me in the mirror, with trembling lip and prickling eye, was Rod Stewart. ROD FLIPPING STEWART. I cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried. (Repeat to fade).

Needless to say, I survived, grew up and decided to tell you lot about it on here. A sort of follicle therapy, if you will.

To conclude, the moral of this blog is that if you see a teenage girl wandering past who may have made a few haphazard choices in her aesthetic exterior, think twice before thinking ‘WHAT A MESS’. She, like me, may have encountered Tony.

And to all the teenage girls out there reading this: DARE TO BE BARE… faced. “You are beautiful.” (Aguilera, Christina, 2002)