Being a
northern lass in London may have an awful lot of perks, namely that it’s
socially acceptable to befriend strangers in bars and engage with fellow
commuters on the last tube home.
But
sometimes this friendliness can lead to an inability to say no, with some
horrific results.
If a man
speaks to you in the street, he’s invariably destined for a future of
institutionalisation. Eye contact should be avoided at all costs. Having made
the mistake of ignoring my own advice on one too many occasions, I’ve found
myself trapped in hour-long conversations before handing over my personal
details and agreeing to drinks, meals, days out, meeting their parents.
The
anorexic Bob Geldof, a 22-year-old boy who, unperturbed by the age-gap,
repeatedly called me “fruity” spring to mind.
Not to mention
Latvian Lance, who insisted on walking me the length of the city:
“What’s
your name?”
“Ellie,”
“Oh, I am
LANCE!! We have the same name.”
No Lance,
we really don’t.
At times of
financial strain I also seem to attract every single street fundraiser capital-wide.
Post Japan
and job hunting on my first day back in London, I was approached by a gaggle of
aptly named charity muggers.
The typical
conversation:
“I have no
job, and no income,”
“But it’s
for charity.......”
At this
point the majority of the population would walk away with, at most, an apologetic shrug. But not
me, in a whirlwind of uncertainty I found myself signing my non-existent funds
away to three charities before the clock had even struck midday. Internet
banking is the silver lining in this unfortunate sequence of events.
Answering
the door yesterday I was faced with a lovely young girl stealing bank-details
for the blind. Despite explaining that I have no income until I start my
new role in September, I’m now the proud owner of a badge thanking me for
making monthly contributions to such a worthwhile cause.
Trawling
around weekend street markets, I deliver my trademark promise; “I’ll just nip to a cash machine” to the majority
of vendors pushing stalls brimming with miscellaneous crap.
However
today, the day before the first of our social group ties the knot, was the long
overdue reality call that I needed in my quest for assertiveness.
Venturing out for a routine eyebrow thread, I
find a place charging a very reasonable £2. It’s cash only so I nip off to a
cash machine before returning.
At which
point the sales pitch ensues:
“We make
eyebrow same as hair colour for £7,”
“Mmm maybe
next time, I’ve got a wedding tomorrow,” I reply, dubiously.
“I promise
you like. You look nice for wedding.”
I can’t
even use the cash machine line as we are both well aware that I’ve just been.
In usual
Ellie-style I find my mouth going into autopilot and succumbing before what
little surviving grey-matter I still possess can protest.
As she
shreds mystery hairs from the crevices of my eyelids she enquires:
“Why your
forehead so spotty?”
Very diplomatic, and just the kind of sales pitch to ensure repeat custom when touting for
trade in one of the allegedly ‘most competitive’ areas of the city.
When I
eventually blink enough brow remnants from my eyeballs to re-focus, I’m met with a
paintbrush-brandishing beautician and pot of very dark paste.
I get the
same sense of impending doom as the occasion I asked for a “Rachel cut” at the
age of 15 and was subsequently nicknamed: “Wig on a stick” and “Beavis” by my
peers.
They were
dark times. Yet not as dark as my
eyebrows.
“You want
see?” she asks – tipping me upright to view her handiwork in the mirror.
I now
resemble Hey Arnold’s unrequited love, Helga. It looks like I fell asleep at a
house-party and someone took a permanent marker to my forehead.
For those of you unfamiliar with this reference, it's not pretty:
With a brow
line that would be laughed out of Liverpool, I was even ashamed to make a
planned pit-stop into Lidyl en-route home, instead running for cover as fast as
my foal-like pins could trot.
Not wanting to steal the bride’s limelight
with my monumental brows, I plan on spending the evening thinking about what I
have done in the shower.
With a pan-scrub.
