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Oi Ronson! Stop being such a sap and put it away! Nobody needs to see you getting the locks done – WTF – who cares like? I mean, a video – really? Like really-really? And just for the record, you were alright with the chestnut mane; now you just look like a potato.
Video after the break. Contains some distressing scenes and bleaching imagery.
There is hat fever in the air. I can feel it in my bones. I can also see it in the D&G, Bimba&Lola, George Wu and Christian Dior A/W campaigns. Designer Noki (above) showed off his sustainable street collection at the Lovebox festival and hats were plentiful. Jennifer Ouellette sparked a headgear frenzy with her Gossip Girl-featured designs and that infamous turban in SATC2 looks like it’s here to stay for a while. Read the rest of this entry »
Let me get straight to the point, the fail is referring to my appalling lack of photos from Punchestown. I was hoping to penetrate the glitterati at the event and try and lure out some of the more left-field stylistas. Anyone who avoided the tried-and-tested matchy-matchy accessorising and ubiquitous frothy dress was worth a snap. And there was plenty of off-kilter fun to be had – jumpsuits and maxis and excellent trouser-suits and beautiful clutches and swoon-inducing jewels and fabulous, fabulous shoes. But I was too distracted with racing-rage to properly concentrate. The queuing and the waiting and the queuing and the ringing and the queuing and the leering…it was just too much. I must point out that I arrived at the tail-end of ladies day, sober and full of rosy-tinted expectations of Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet (I’ve only been to the races twice). So I was thrown when we were greeted at the gates by 14 year old girls staggering around bare-foot and bedraggled and champagne-stewed men catcalling their wins way above the acceptable noise limits. I had my first drink at 9pm and could only seethe in rage until that point. So in a nutshell, no photographs from Punchestown. Read the rest of this entry »
my hair is the bane of my life most mornings. whatever way i sleep, i end up with a lions mane of hair matted to my face (or seaweed hair as jennie likes to call it…) it is often (spuriously) claimed (in magazines) that matted-bed-hair can resemble the wonderfully volumised, surfer-chic style; a style i envy…but it’s all LIES. my morning hair takes a nightmarishly long time to brush through and is more electrified than volumised. and i just don’t have the time or the interest to be up washing and styling my barnet every morning. many a day have i just given up and relied on the ‘aul faithful – the messy-bun-on-top-of-head style – not really a good look on anyone – as Kate Moss repeatedly demonstrates… so on mornings that i just can’t be arsed to wash my hair, (but not looking for the Croydon Facelift), i say hurrah for dry hair shampoo, bobby pins and some easy-to-do-plaits. a plait brightens up any dull hairstyle. whether it be one at the front ( hiding that greasy fringe you just didnt get a chance to wash ), a full plait up do, or a side plait, you’ll look like you put effort into your bouffant. see below for how-to and how-not-to…
HOW NOT TO:
Do you remember the time when you would arrive out on a Saturday night* and hear the squeals of ‘Oh My God’ (pre- OMG or LOL) – hairdresser hair! You would turn around in a fit of hair-lust see the shiny straight hair of the new arrival to the group.
Then Babyliss arrived on the scene and crimpers became straighteners. However forty minutes with one of those babies would barely make a dent in long, frizzy Irish hair. And within 30 minutes of leaving the house, the damp in the air would turn your bonce back into its usually wavy, frizzy, not-curly-but-not-straight, natural form.
Then the whispers began. Have you heard about the GHD? You can only get them in England… they are £150! (circa 2000 this was about €250 euro and we were still in school with a monthly pocket money of about €100)
Then IT happened. My best friend’s older cousin purchased one while in London. I arrived up to her house that Friday and every Friday thereafter. Down in the local pub we were greeted time and time again with a chorus of Oh My God-Hairdresser Hair and we sniggered at our ingenuity. Of course our day in the sun was not everlasting. Soon our secret was out as the GHD hit the Irish market.
Every night out for the next five years was spent with a good two hours of firing up the GHD and all the girls beating their lovely hair into submission. Sweaty and with sore arms, we would be ready to go eventually with not an ounce of volume among us. I look at photos from my university days and see picture after picture of flat haired clones.
Then the backlash began and my thick, wavy surf-girl hair became an item of lust. These days at the bathroom sink, the girls can be seen backcombing their hair to add volume and everyone’s hair is different – its now curly, wavy, straight, full of volume or shaved (best left to Amber Rose and Mel C I would think)
So with a seven year itch I am divorcing my GHD. It’s been loyal, but after numerous horrendous burns and too-many-to-count drunken panics as to wether I have left it on (and the house is about to burn down), it’s time to part. From now on, it’s a bit of backcombing with my fingers and out the door.
* after twenty minutes arguing with the bouncer over whether or not your fake ID was in fact fake.