Over the hill, and overweight. Wrinkles, grey hair and the assorted accompaniments of ageing. Fighting them tooth and nail. Guess thats why they call me the old battle axe.
A kind soul has put the link up on You tube, and much to my consternation, another kind commenter (Thank you Gypsy) led me to it.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=k7CQxXgNakw
I’m the one in the corner with the funny curled at the ends hair and the crossed legs. And since the uplinked portion is strangely only half the programme with only my part in it, you will not get to hear the words of wisdom being spewed by the other two guests.
My two unknown benefactors. Thank you.
As a cursory reader of this blog would realise, I am not a person to let good enough alone and must necessarily take upon myself to be the social leader and gatherer of folk to communal pursuits. Yesterday, it was the culmination of a week long effort of hectic smsing and calling that got together over a dozen mammas from the school my son goes to, dressed in our finery, for lunch. Over a buffet. As any woman would understand and sympathise with, eating together in a public situation with other women watching like hawks to check just how much you pile on your plate is a very scary proposition. Of course, it meant that many waited until the rest had filled their plates before wandering off on their ownsome lonesomes to investigate the offerings at the buffet table. Much camaraderie and joking happened. And then the discussion veered to the ambitious plan of “Lets do this again sometime with the husbands.” This said by a brave woman who probably has a husband who is more sociable than a wall of drying paint, which is what most husbands are like. Mine included. The husband has been known to never emerge from his room to even make a cursory nod at guests he doesnt find interesting. On the one hand I admire his courage at being so inhospitable. On the other, I melt in puddles of embarassment, and short of dragging him physically into the living room through threats or bribes of the variety that cannot be mentioned by a decent married woman on a public space, I have no option but to keep apologising for his lack of sociability.
I donot think husbands will ever make themselves comfortable in a gathering of men who are not their bum chums since childhood. Langotiya yaar, I believe is the phrase. Take my husband to any social gathering and he will find the darkest dimmest corner to stand in and sulk until a decent interval has passed (Normally fifteen minutes) before he can do the disappearing trick. Give him his very best friend in the whole wide world and he will probably even forget that I am along.
And me, being me, I have to flit around the entire venue, chat up every vaguely familiar face, even to embarassing levels of accosting random strangers if they look like someone I have had a conversation at some point in a previous life. There is so much to do at a gathering of people, some of whom are known, others who are friends you yet have to get to know. Catch up with lives and marvel at weightloss efforts. Enquire about children. Boast unabashedly about your own tyke.
Now, we have taken to going separately for events of individual interest. Its easier on both of us. The rare times we go out together is to homes of couples who are individually friends with both of us. Or wedding receptions, where the mandatory Mr and Mrs attendance is warranted.
Therefore, when this point was raised, while someone must have been drunk on goodfeeling and bonhomie and dim lighting to even suggest it, the mood immediately sobered down. We all looked at each other, gasped in shock and disbelief. “Nahhhhhhhh.” The verdict was unanimous. Lets just let the good times roll. Getting husbands to meet would be like dragging bulls to the slaughter house. Not to mention the whining before and after the event. I speak for my man. I dont know about the rest.
I stabbed my bhuna chicken boneless with my fork and contemplated deeply. (Yes, yes, all ye who are thinking, there goes all her good intentions of dieting and getting into shape, I didnot eat dinner to make up, and walked a mile after that spread, which had the buttons popping on my jeans as I hauled myself up from the table. And yes, I was the last woman eating in the group, while the rest waited politely for me to clean up or at least put fork and spoon down in 12 oclock position). Why is it that we are better with girl friends without them husbands being around? Is it the girly talk we indulge in, that we know the husbands will have no ear for? Or is it simply that I have married a wall of a man who’s occasional response to every question is a grunt or a nod, in alternative sequences. How are the men in your lives as social animals? Can you ever do a decent lunch or dinner with the ladies and the gentlemen in good humour?
As for our ladies luncheon, we enjoyed it so much, we’re going to make it a regular event. Once a month. And investigate all the restaurants in the vicinity. Anything to eat good food. And have some great conversations that revolve around absolutely nothing of importance, including such fascinating topics as ladies who sell real fake bags straight off from Bangkok at killer rates, and who have perfumes at throwaway prices. And a designer who makes miracles in designer wear from your old sarees and some judicious embroidery. Stuff we women live by. Sometimes it feels good to leave your brain at the door of the restaurant with your dietary resolutions, and just indulge yourself.
It is official. I have two stomachs. One that happens above the waistline of the trousers. And one that pokes out happily from below the waistline and refuses to behave and settle in nicely, like any selfrespecting stomach would, and insists on peeking out through tops that are a trifle too short for comfort, having been bought in the good old days when one didnt even know the meaning of the word paunch. And they both move to a different beat from the rest of me. And I now need to stop pretending I have premenstrual bloat, or that them polycystic ovaries are the culprits, the culprit is me, for letting that stomach grow to such gigantic proportions without proof of a growing life form within.
Therefore now, I have resolved to get into shape. No round isnt a shape, and no matter how much the husband reassures me that cuddly is sexy, love handles sure as hell arent. Not when they are obtuse angles that refuse to follow the natural curve of the denim that I try to force them into. Yes. Lycra is my current best friend. And lycra enhanced denims are what I bow to everyday. But how long can this subterfuge continue? One fine day I need to confront my multiple stomachs and thunderthighs without the camouflage of lycra and slimming mirrors, and face up to the truth. The truth being that weight needs to be lost and pronto and lets not kid oneself that one is ‘healthy’.
Then comes the agony of exercise. I can sit the entire day at the computer and wear out my fingers, but ask me to lift a dumb bell and I go into glazed shock.
Ofcourse, the multiple stomachs need crunches and much effort to get them to behave, but me being me, will be ostrichlike and pretend that cutting out the carbs, and ambling around the jogging track occasionally like an elephant minus the tail will do the trick. Who am I kidding? I need an army sergeant to whip me into shape, and knowing me, will run off crying bitter tears on the very first day when I find myself unable to reach anywhere below my knees from standing position.
Therefore will now aim not at spot reduction but general fitness. Which means not taking the elevator but walking up and down the stairs. Which I did the other day when the lights went out, and collapsed in a sweaty puddle somewhere between the eight and ninth floor, and called the husband on speed dial in agony. Yes, yes, fitness levels are abyssmal. Also the fact that I was shod in steel spiked stilletoes didnt help the cause. Do you think I am inflicting agony on mother earth like some voodoo practitioner sticking little pins into it, by wearing these? And by putting so much pressure on such a sliver of a heel?
Anyway, the hope of wearing flats, moccasins, ballerinas and sports shoes to maximise walking time has gone the way of all my good intentions. I wear them occasionally, but not always. And always feel so dowdy and behenji in them, that I start mopping up the imaginary oil from my hairline, and wonder if I should just plaster on a bindi and one gadzillion bangles on my hands to complete the look. Flats do nothing for me, except make me look more like a pillar than a lissome vine. But since they make me more comfortable to walk more, I should get them gams into them more often.
And I should cut out the carbs, and the salt, I am told. And eat five small meals through the day. Cut out the junk. Drink lots of hot water through the day. Dont eat after seven in the evening. Be active. Get at least half an hour of exercise a day. Going to try this all. Solemn oath. And will keep you guys posted if the stomachs decide to merge into one.
I mean that literally. Post the angst of the morning I needed some unwinding, and how. I mean, had I not unwinded, I would have unravelled and so much oil slick on the roads from dissolved fat would have caused a pile up a mile long. Anyway, expedientally, Inorbit has also decided to be on sale. Everything in it. From the Shoppers Stop and Lifestyle at either end, to everything in between. That includes Charles and Keith. And Guess. And Remanika. And Regal. And Catwalk. And Intouch. There were more too on sale. But, like the eyes of the alcoholic only seeks out liquor and wine shops, so do these contact lensed eyes only sift out the bag and shoe shops from the grist. Therefore I ran in, with full war paint, having escaped from hordes of violent adults masquerading as parents (more details on that horrific experience once I have recovered from the trauma), shiny sequined chiffon top already crumpled and crushed like I had been through a second class Mumbai local, my hair a total mess, my face punctuated with two stress induced frown lines. I emerged, a couple of hours later. Many thousands lighter. And stress relieved. Of course, the husband would rather I popped a Disprin. Or a Valium. Or whatever would be cheaper than this. A black patent leather in a soft finish, with metallic inserts from Esbeda. A handbag for my mother (I appreciate her more each day that I struggle being a mother). A brown and matt gold knit mock sweater top from FCUK. (Which incidentally wasnt on sale, but dont tell anyone that, except for the man who puts in the ticks and the crosses in my ledger of good and evil). Come on, I have a ladies lunch coming up next week. I need to look good. This not counting the many tops I already have which make me gorgeous already. A pair of divine gold and cream stilletoes from Charles and Keith which I will never be able to walk in, let alone run around in, and will probably have to be a Cleopatra and be carried around by slaves on a modern day palkhi should I ever deign to wear them. Some random toys for the kid. All educational. All which didnt excite him at all. A couple of Tshirts for the husband. To assuage guilt and feel Like A Very Generous Girl. And a handbag for the MIL.
Excuse me now while I bask in the glow of needless excessive shopping, before the cold light of morning and the credit card bill strikes.
…If you do, great. You can watch me make a complete fool of myself at 11 pm, this Sunday on The Lounge, anchored by Rajat Kapoor. A re telecast happens on next Thursday night at 11 pm. Enjoy.
Yesterday, through fluke and a mischance, actually had a spare day in which to fill with mindless gossiping with friends over a cup of piping hot cappuchino, yummy grilled sandwiches and mindless shopping. So there we were. Three moms. Moi, mom to one, and still looking like pregnancy weight needed to be shed hasta la vista. Another friend, also mom to one, the same age as mine own, lithe, sleek and flat bellied like one of them Egyptian belly dancers, and the third, mom to two, with the second one barely having popped out a few months ago, back to being sleek and lithe and flat bellied, and having the good sense to do a fitness instructor’s course during her nursing days. Unlike lazy moi who considers running around only offspring to be the only form of exercise worth doing.
Yes, yes, yes. Felt like the fat ugly friend of the group all over again, and had I closed my eyes, it could have been me, blast from the past, back in the college canteen, being the fat funny one, in outdated clothes, and unmatched shoes, while the rest of the girls were getting the glad eyes from the hunks around. Then one of the duo pipes up, “You know, you look exactly like Tisca Chopra?”
I did a double take. I would have preferred a Jennifer Lopez or a Jennifer Gartner, or even a Madhuri Dixit, or even Malaika Arora, but was quite flattered with the Tisca Chopra. Hell, I even have the rapscallion reduction xerox of Ishaan Awasthi minus the bunny teeth back at home. And yes, I have the furrowed worried harassed permanent expression set on my face. I sometimes fail to recognise self if catch glimpse in the mirror of self laughing.
Anyway, that got buried under more urgent gossip about who was divorcing whom, and who was seeing whom, and who had got some work done, and such like. A spot of retail therapy followed, and I staggered with my load into a rickshaw to get back home. Yes, yes. The driver is absconding. Am reduced to toting my carcass around in public transport, much to the horror of self. Sat in empty rickshaw and commandeered driver of said vehicle to take me to my destination. The chappie, in the manner of all autodrivers, started rickshaw off at a rapid trot which meant no brakes, zigzagging to avoid traffic and all the while looking at me strangely in the rear view mirror. Ever felt creepy in the pit of your stomach? That was what was happening. Then he turned his head right around, a 180 degree swivel while the rick was going forth at top speed in Mumbai traffic. I shrieked in fear and inched further into the leatherite, cracked and peeling seat. Painful memories of dislocated fingers from previous rickshaw accident on highway still fresh in memory made me brave, and I hollered sternly, “Kya hai? Aage dekhke chalaon. Nahi to gadi rokon.” He laughed, an evil laugh, that revealed lines of really bad, paanstained teeth. “Nahin madam. Hum aapko theekh se dekh rahen the. Aap Aamir Khan saab ko boliye, bahut hi badhiya picture thi. Aapne bhi badiya acting ki thi. Woh munna tho bahut he badmaaas hai….” He looked ahead momentarily to get his bearings and breath back. “Bahut hi badiya picshur thi!” Eh? Tisca, you have one autodriver fan. By default.
What do you think? Do we match any? The same comparison twice in the span of a single day really has me flummoxed.
Edited to add: Asked the husband said question to be met with quizzical look and raised eyebrow which suggested “Dont flatter yourself.” That settled the debate.
…When you have spent 18 years celebrating Valentine’s Day, the thought of celebrating the day itself becomes redundant. But here’s why I must get down on my knees and thank the powers that be for such a wonderful man by my side. Had to report in the morning for shoot mentioned in previous post. Naturally, infinite butterflies in the stomach of nauseatingly make hands and feet trembly, and mouth tongue tied variety, given that I am naturally a terrified and shy person. (Yes, yes, the bravado is all reserved for the blog). And add to this the fact, that I would be facing camera, after almost 15 years. I last read news for a channel called YES, that came and went like a blink, apart from anchoring some stray programmes that came on DD Metro through various production houses. Did the old dog still have it in her? Therefore I arm twisted the husband into accompanying me for much needed moral support. Which he did. Which meant getting up early, skipping gym, and eating a breakfast cooked hastily by me. What a horrible way to start the day. And then put all his work on hold to come with me to the studio. Sat on the sofa while I had hair and make up done, and reassured me I was looking fabulous, though I was acutely aware that things like undereye concealer was being slapped on with much more ferocity than I could remember from days gone past. And the hair dresser, poor child, was really struggling to get hair into some semblance of order from the birdsnest it was.
And once I was done, husband did not accompany me into the studio but stepped out to coordinate his work, and waited outside patiently till I was done. And went on to his meetings and the rest of his day, while I sashayed back home to be meet with a child who had raised hell and high water. The cold and fever that was running through my body for a couple of days took over and I crawled shivering into a blanket, and the husband came home after a really long day and took complete charge of the kid, while I slept it off. And that is no mean task given the energy levels of said kid.
That was our Valentine’s Day. How could anyone not love a man like this?
And yes, some Escada happened too. Perfume and bath set.
…you would polish up your facts on the issue being discussed, right? I, on the other hand, start tossing heaps of clothes on the bed to decide the perfect outfit I should wear. And the perfect shoes to go with it. And the perfect jewellery. And then having tried them all out in various permutations and combinations and deciding that nothing fits, and I look fat and gross in all, and will be edited out as ugly scary creature worthy of making special appearance in horror show, given that eyebrows are currently caterpillars crawling across the surface of the forehead and pimples the size of Vesuvius have erupted on the oily surface of aforementioned forehead which is fringed with grey strands reminescent of old ladies, caring too litte about self to touch up regrowth. Having moaned all this to consternation of puzzled husband, and flung around some more clothes, and decided one didnt want to be on panel because one didnt look good anymore, get the gem of the oneliner, “I thought they invited you because of the way you think not because of the way you look.” Yes. That did wonders for the ego. So now will go like earthgoddess in flowing kaftan, and Germaine Greer untamed tresses, parted in the center, and no make up. Its the way I think, not the way I look. So dont look at me while I speak. Its the way I think. Perhaps this should have been a radio show.
Edited to add: Okay, just back from the shoot. Shot for NDTV’s Good Times channel, for a programme called Lounge. It airs at around 11 pm, and is hosted by the very dapper Rajat Kapoor. I was on the panel with an adorably handsome Ayub Khan and a vivacious Radio Mirchi RJ called Pracriti. And yes, the topic under discussion was reinvention of marriage. As always, I remembered all the points I need to make after the camera stops rolling. Alas. Will put up the exact date of telecast, once I get it so hopefully you guys who are keen on getting your socks bored off you can catch it. And witness the swamp thing speaking.
It has finally come to pass that we Mumbaikars have been authorized by the powers that be to dress up like Delhiites. In that I mean them boots, skin coloured socks, mufflers, turtlenecked sweaters, denim jackets lined with fleece and all the wonderful yummy woolen wear we save up for those precious vacations when we visit chilly climes and dress like monkeys going to the Arctic. In totally uncoordinated messed up heaps of cold meant to ward off the cold better than a bottle of brandy warming the innards could ever hope to. Yup. The brandy works better. Would have downed some on the sly, but the unmentionable persons had got to it first. And since one had no brandy left in the house and no courage to brave the freezing winds hitting and sidling into one’s ears to get some more, one huddled up within blankets and shivered one’s well insulated butt off.
It is now official. Despite the body fat percentage on my carcass being enough to get a full sized polar bear through an entire Arctic winter of hibernation, I myself, will never be able to make it through the Ice Age. Or any cold for that matter which has the thermometer dipping below the 15 degree mark. Unless I have my feet toasted by those lovely charcoal sigris, my ears covered up with monkey caps and self enclosed in confined space with every window and door double insulated and shut tight to be opened only on the pain of death and horrific dismemberment. While the rest of the city chirps around in tshirts with them fine Pashmina fake shawls, looking like they just stepped off the runways, I stagger around with boots (close them feet up completely, thick denim jeans and am embarrassed to state, woolen socks within, turtleneck pullovers and since, have all my jackets packed away in the mother’s loft for travels to foreign climes, an assortment of woolen shawls with Kashmiri handwork, and rough wool pankhis to keep me alive. No. Am not looking chic. Have arrived at a grudging respect for them women who manage to stay warm and look stick thin at the same time, despite layering on woolies. Read really slim and sleek. They are wearing them thermals underneath am sure. Being a Mumbaikar, and living in airconditioned confines for the entire year, have never needed them thermals and actually set out in quest of them the other day to find Lokhandwala market shop that always boldly advertised availability of thermals regardless of season and climate, even through days when the shop was flooded in during the monsoons, was out of stock. “Madam, agle hafte ana. Stock aa jayega.” I pouted. “Boss, agele hafte tak Mumbai mein thand khatam bhi ho jayegi.” Anyway. Bad bad salesman. If I die of pneumonia, you know whom to file the FIR against. For criminal neglect.
I discovered my lack of affinity with the cold climes when the husband took me to Ooty for a vacation that had me refuse to get out of my triple layering of woollies. Lets just say not much romancing and passion happened, when triple thick layers of handknitted woollies come as barriers to skin to skin contact. And when the triple thick layers are not removed under threat of immediate abandonment and divorce, they do not contribute to the romance of the moment. All those hill town romances are good only in the movies. I would have been the girl refusing to sashay with the muffler wrapped fetchingly around elfin face. I would be the girl wrapped in everything she could lay her hands on including the hotel blanket and then insist on doing her sightseeing from the tourist bus. (Am guilty as charged. The Bollywood tour in Ooty. I saw it from the bus. )
The husband in the meanwhile continues to be man of steel and iron. Going for his daily jog in his tee and shorts. Bare legged. Only his sneakers and his shorts covering the two extremes of his legs. So there I am muffled upto the gills with shawls and monkey cap and mufflers while he comes in puffing and panting and rushing into the shower for an ice cold shower. You know. I pick my jaw off the floor and go drape the blankets on myself. “You go get your haemoglobin checked,” warns the mother in tones so dire, she could be portending a fatal disease. “With all your weight you shouldn’t feel so cold.” Yes, thank you for the compliment. My fat is pure insulation that isn’t working too well. Do you also realize that I should be in hibernation now. Deep in a warm cave. Undisturbed. Rather than being forced to awake at ungodly hours of six am to make tiffins and tea and get the household moving. Such cruelty. Is there a society for prevention of cruelty to wannabe polar bears?
Will now swallow my angst with a goodsized shot of that brandy and get my carcass into coordinated sweater and pullover and shoes and look like I could just be stepping off that ski lift at Aspen. Bah. If only the other skiers wouldn’t yell out, “Bear up ahead.”
Its that kind of a fix that only a fresh tube of lipstick can give. Peel off the plastic wrap and apply it over already existent lipstick, half faded since the morning, and stare at self, convinced that one has worked a miracle that no amount of Botox and Restylane could have ever. The magic of a fresh tube of lipstick. The hope and the cheer it brings. And the agony when you buy what the salesgirl pushes onto you, and then you discover, in the harsh remitting unflourescent light of day, makes you look like a study in monochromes, without the hefty price tag that comes attached to such these days, given that even newbie fine art graduates are deeming it fit to price themselves at prices so obscene that one can only hope that some correction in the art market sees them come down to earth faster than a piggy on a slide. But then, I digress. Coming back to them lipsticks, have you ever done that? Sneaked out at lunch break from work and pottered around departmental stores, getting makeovers from the immaculately put together sales staff, and make up experts, and then convince yourself it is really worth your while and your bank balance to invest such lordly sums into tubes of synthetic colour which would make your lips the equivalent to the baboon’s red nether region. Both mating calls according to them anthropologists who have studied the mating habits of both humans and them apes and state on authority that the redness of the said part is said to mimic a state of …well, since this is a UA rated blog, desire. Both the equivalent of hoisting up a flag that says, look here, available. Only in my case, its not a mating call as much as a desperate bid to add some colour to a face drained off all colour by the vagaries of sun and stress and of course, the omni present vanity of wanting to pass off as spring chicken, when one is actually tired stringy chicken.
So there I was. At the brand new and sparkling Health and Glow store. At Versova in Mumbai. Looking for a quick make up fix. a mood pick me up that would do zero damage to the waistline, never mind the damage inflicted to wallet. Shopping for make up is liberating. It gives you hope and happiness. Its a moment when you believe that a new shade on your lips will automatically make the sun break through from the clouds, and the cherubim sound the bugles. Unfortunately, ten minutes into wearing said new shade in public situation disabuses you of the misconception and you start the hunt for perfect shade again.
Any wonder at one point in my life, when Lakme had a newly launched collection of matte lipsticks, I speak of the early 1990s, I had every shade in the collection. And still hankered for more. I could never be an Avon customer, the wait kills me. And then the absolutely deflating experience of receiving what you ordered from the catalogue to find it is absolutely nowhere close to the miracle shade to end all your miseries you had ordered. In fact, it makes you look like a newly interned cadaver and which is why it should be passed on to glad souls with better and more forgiving complexions, or absolute unfinickiness about what shade adorns their lips. Like a sixty plus aunt who was only too delighted to relieve me of a particularly scary orange red that came with a YSL tag, but made me look like a punk rocker. And no. Am not telling you what it made her look like, but the point is it made her happy.
Coming back to the Health and Glow. This was a newly opened store, I would have expected better service. Searching for that impossible perfect shade to put the glow back into my sallow face. Four counters there. Lakme. Revlon. Maybelline. L’Oreal. Of which, the Lakme girl was swamped by customers who were attacking her from all sides. Aunties in sweaters over salwar kameezes who wanted every variation in maroon she could throw at them. She looked at me helplessly and asked me if I minded looking through the selection. I moved on. The Maybelline girl was too busy doing her own make up to bother about a hesitant me asking her to show me any new shades which might have arrived. And so engrossed was she in the perfect application of her eyeliner that she didnt even blink before, without a smidgeon of hesitation, asked me to hop right over to the Revlon counter. Which I did. I needed my lipstick fix, and I needed it bad. And I was not fussy about the brand. Therefore I took my cash and my attention elsewhere. The Revlon girl was more than efficient. Even the husband wasnt that pernicitious about holding my hand for more time than the mandatory required. After she had finished smearing the back of my hand with every possible shade from the tester stand she had in front of her, she looked up and smiled rather earnestly. “This one will look great on you madam,” she said. “You have such great skin.” For the sheer pleasure of hearing such falsitude said with such earnestness, I bought two shades. One a glossy nude. One, a matt earth brown. And then smudged the lips with both, one on top of the other, in a smorgsmabord of disjointed colours. And revelled in the temporary high I got from a new shade. Till withdrawal symptoms strike again…
My favourite lipstick till date? Fawn Fatale from L’Oreal. Have worn it down to a nub many times over and rebought it. It does things to my skin that nothing can ever come close to, no facial, no blast of chilly air. Havent been able to get my hands on for a very long time. My second favourite? MAC’s Lip Glass. Makes them lips look like a needle full of plumpers has been stuck into them. And boy they could do with some of that. Plumping required? Check out Clinique’s Pure Plump, Full Potential Lips, which really make your pout poutier than you can imagine. Beware though, you dont really want people to think you’ve been in a fight or overdosed on the injections.Then there is MAC’s Viva Glam. Chai to be specific. To kill for the shine. You could light up a dark street with the sparkle. Then there is the myth about brown lipsticks making you look older. Great matte shades cheap from Sylvania. Give an immaculate finish, but use them over a lighter shade. Never know what reaction might come up. Yes, yes, I buy them cheap ones too. Slather them on and then agonise about any reaction that might occur. And then swear on all thats holy to stay off the cheap until the next bout of colour madness strikes. For colour that stays and stays and refuses to let go, nothing beats good old Lakme. No, dont turn your nose up. The product is as good as them overpriced ones, especially the shades from their Fashion week collections. For a natural highshine product from Lakme, I swear by Lakme Free Spirit Lip Lacquer. Also high on my recommended list, L’Oreal’s Made for Me Colour Riche Naturals. Lovely shades. Perfect for every skin type. Go get one now. Pink more your style?? Only if you have the clear skin with pink undertones to try it out, check this to kill for Pink to The Club Lancome Colour Fever Lipstick. A fresh fresh hue that almost like a garden of English roses. And if the sudden cold is drying out your pout, Bourjois Creme de Levres is what you want. Go ahead. If natural is what you want, the Body Shop Lip and Cheek Stain in Rose is what I swear by. Gives you a flush that only a new romance can rival. Another multiuse product that really works? Onyx Lip and Cheek Tint. Lightweight and natural, but needs reapplication every few hours. But looks tres natural, like you just stepped out of a sauna. A sexy brown that takes you through a night out without making you look like a lady of dubious reputation? Try Revlon’s Plummp Passion It. Rich brown with a slight, just a slight hint of gold. Perfect for those ethnic ensembles loaded with golden zari. Go ahead, vamp it up. Nothing looks better than a woman in a shade of lipstick that looks good on her. And if you’ve found yours let me know. I’m still hunting for the perfect fool proof goes with everything and every mood shade. At last count, the total was around 200. I end up using the same two or three everyday. I dont think the perfect shade for me has been made yet. As for those baboons, do you think that particular shade….
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