Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours had been in the charts for over a year and every teenage girl wanted the look. Stevie Nicks was the coolest. She had the original grungy hippy vibe, in her floaty black garb and her shaggy perm, she was every teenage boys dream. Therefore every teenage girl wanted the shaggy perm. Including me.
Well, as a penniless teenager, how could I possibly afford the shaggy perm. My mother’s purse strings didn’t stretch to a hair cut never mind an eye watering 30 pounds for a perm in one of the salons on Grafton Street. There was of course an alternative, actually my only option. “Eileen’s Hair Creations”. Eileen was a local woman who passed herself off as a hairdresser, and operated out of a salon above the local butchers. I use the word ‘salon’ loosely, as it was a room with a sink, two chairs and a bench. As you rose the stairs to her door, the smell of the butchers gave way to the overpowering stench of Elnett hair spray. In a previous life Eileen worked in the fish factory gutting fish so it’s a mystery how she reinvented herself as a hairdresser. Although about twenty years out of date, Eileen wore her hair in a tall beehive. Allegedly, she was an expert at doing perms, very popular with her octogenarian customers who were offered free a blue rinse alongside the perm. Eileen had never seen the cover of Rumours and in her mind this Stevie Nicks person must have been a man.
Nevertheless, I had to have a perm and the only way I was getting it was to succumb to Eileen’s perming skills. I suppose with hindsight the beehive should have been a giveaway, an inkling as to the standard of style Eileen aspired to.
I didn’t exactly look like Stevie Nicks when she was finished with me. I think the problem was that Eileen only had one roller size. The ‘little old lady perm’ size. I emerged with little tiny frizzy curls radiating from my head. I suppose it could have been worse, the free blue rinse wasn’t included.
I pulled my hood up, went home and hibernated for three months.
This isn’t me but bears an uncanny resemblance
A young girl called Imogen posted a picture on Facebook last week, of her epic fake tan fail. The unfortunate girl used a paint roller to apply it with disastrous results. It’s debatable whether she deserves our pity as she was stupid enough to share this idiocy with 40,000 Facebook users. However she is young and it got me thinking about my own foolish efforts in the name of vanity. The path to perfection hasn’t always been easy. Domestic Godliness cannot be achieved without a few mishaps along the way.
upon which a section of hair would be combed, covering it with brown paper, ironing said hair and hey presto, beautiful sleek straight tresses, fabulous. All done surrepticiously, without my mother’s knowledge. If caught, no doubt she’d have murdered us.
When it came to my teenage years, my older siblings had moved on and the one sister left, would refuse to iron my hair unless a bribe was offered. Going out in a state of frizz wasn’t an option so I would plead, beg, loan her my newest jeans, offer to do her bidding, anything. The power went to her head and I came to realise this pleading situation couldn’t go on. In desperation one day after she turned a deaf ear to my pleas, I took matters in hand and decided I would iron my own hair. Kneeling down, combing the hair and with brown paper in place I ironed my hair. It worked, I was in heaven. No longer enslaved to the whimsical nature of my siblings moods, I became a dab hand with the brown paper and flaunted my dexterity with the iron.
I suppose it was inevitable that it would end in disaster…
A domestic goddess should always be on the lookout for labour saving gadgets to ease the burden of housecraft. Drudgery is not something I wish to embrace. Over the years I’ve collected quite a few duds, but also some really nifty machines. Of course, apart from being useful, it’s imperative that it looks stylish on your kitchen worktop. Remember you are what you own.
1. The Nespresso machine. I’m in love with it. Good coffee at the press of a button. And those ads on TV with Gorgeous George. If it’s good enough for Mr. Clooney, need I say more. Verdict 10/10
2. The Egg Master. A horrifying tedious affair. May come in useful if you have unwelcome guests. Serve this up to ensure they never return. Verdict 1/10
Deep Tea Diver Infuser. All methods of tea making should be explored. Combines my favourite words. Verdict 5/10
4. Quintuple Bladed Herb Scissors – a snip in time.. Handy for all herb snipping or bush trimming emergencies. Verdict 9/10
5. Mr Tea Infuser – Good for injecting a little fun into your tea rituals. However, there is a caveat, tea always tastes better when brewed in a propper tea pot and served in a china tea cup. Mr Tea reminds me of Himself in this picture. The resemblance is uncanny. Verdict 8/10
6. The Nutri Bullet – Ditch it. Vegetable juice is solely for the terminally naff. Verdict 1/10
7. Mitten Ice Tong – A must have for any self respecting domestic goddess. Useful, understated elegance, says a lot about who you are. Verdict 10/10
8. Hedgehog Cheese Grater – It may take a little longer to grate cheese but always remember, style over substance. Verdict 7/10
I am the youngest of ten children. I know it’s regarded as either obscene or selfish to have large families in this day and age, but growing up in the late seventies in Ireland, it wasn’t unusual. Despite what you might think, I had an idyllic childhood. We lived in a tiny three bed terraced house in suburbia, with one TV which we all watched together, in the one room. My mother’s pride and joy, the three piece sofa, managed to accommodate all of us. The sofa alone sat four people on proper cushions, and one on each antimacassared arm. It was a time of learning extreme bladder control. If you got up to go to the loo, your place would be gone. Many a sibling altercation began with ‘that was my seat’.
Thank God the 70’s was the golden age of comedy as there was no money for any other form of entertainment. Recording your tv programs hadn’t been invented, you had to be at home at 9pm on Tuesday night if you wanted to see Porridge. Top of the Pops the highlight of the week was Thursday’s sorted. TV schedules dictated that we lived our lives in a comforting routine. You couldn’t miss The Generation Game, Starsky and Hutch on Saturday night followed by Match of the Day. You could predict what you would be doing any given Wednesday night at 8.30 based on what was on TV (I think ‘Dave Allen at Large’ was Wednesday or was it The Good Life). Saturday morning Swap Shop. When the TV wasn’t on, the stereo was. My overriding memory of the 70’s is great music and great clothes and great telly.
We thought The Waltons was just normal family life. Nothing unusual there. I wish we could return to the 70’s, when the house was full, the telly blaring and nobody ever worried about diet or exercise.
Granted there were some things I hated. I’m sure it wasn’t all sugar coated happy families, and I’m sure terrible things were happening in the world, but I wasn’t aware of them. In the interest of balance I have to admit there were things I could have done without.
A tax credit for grooming. Women had long been discriminated when it comes to grooming. We pay more for hair styling, make up, nails, waxing, tanning. Men generally don’t have to worry about these matters (the man in my life anyway). Looking this good doesn’t come cheap. I also believe cosmetics should be available on the national health (I do believe good grooming promotes a sense of well being thereby improving the nations mental health), it should at least be tax deductible. A maintenance grant for upkeep of accessories would be helpful also. When was the last time your man had to have his pearls restrung?
Subsidies for dog grooming. Everyone agrees that the issue of exhorbitant prices charged by dog groomers is a national scandal. Access to affordable pooch trimming should be a constitutional right.
Olive oil. I won’t bore you with the science but apparently it’s hugely beneficial to the health of my arteries, but only when used cold, not in cooking. So I’ve been doing it wrong all this time.
I’m starting to notice a change in the tightness of my clothes. I rush to the bathroom scales. Nooooo..This is not what I signed up for. Walnut oil is meant to be skinny making not fat making.
Getting into the lift this morning, I looked particularly bedraggled as I viewed my reflection in the full length mirror facing me. This mirror is my nemesis. Enter this lift at your peril. No matter what efforts I make to look half decent, the mirror tells the same story.
Recently the boss asked us for suggestions to make our work place better, a think tank of sorts. Ideas to generate additional revenue or save on expenditure. We were all expected to come up with at least one suggestion. I gave it my full consideration and came up with this. I suggested replacing the mirror in the lift. Replace it with one like the ones in clothes boutiques that make you look both skinny and tanned at the same time. Every woman knows about them. How many times have I bought a dress or a pair of jeans that looked fabulous in the shop, only to get home to find that my lumpy arse still looks feckin lumpy.
I was outraged to learn that not only did my suggestion not receive the full consideration it deserved that it was in fact was met with derision.
Its Ash Wednesday, the first day of lent, the day a Domestic Goddess must insist is a day of fasting.
The good news is that we can eat Tayto crisps today. Although Tayto is a revered treat, technically it’s allowed as it contains no meat or sugar. In case you’re unaware, Tayto crisps have gained legendary status among the Irish. Emigrants ask their loved ones to send them by the truck load. In fact, no respectable Irish household would be without an emergency packet of Tayto crisps.
My plan for the day is to compensate by eating lots of crisps (5 packets), copious amounts of coffee, croissants and my favourite – scampi and chips.
Last weekend, I took myself off for a trip to the West of Ireland with my two amigos. Where else would a Domestic Goddess go but Dromoland Castle to rub shoulders with the rich and famous. Actually, we pretended to stay there. Due to my impoverished status, we stayed at the Inn at Dromoland, not the castle itself (which incidently was voted the world’s number one hotel). A Goddess has standards, and clearly the world number two hotel wouldn’t do.
From the Inn, it was a ten minute walk in biblical weather to the castle. The howling wind did nothing for our hair as we struggled through the grounds. Such was the tangled mess on my head that I feared birds would attempt to nest. Get inside pronto.
Two hours later we set out for a tipsy walk back to the Inn this time with a blissful disregard for what the weather would do to our hair. A nice gentleman gatekeeper appeared in the courtesy car and dropped us back.
The next time it’s your turn to invite friends around to dinner, how about feasting on a fresh kill by a fellow driver? Get the kids involved. Go out in search of a deliciously-free meal that doesn’t even require a trip to the supermarket. Do not pick up a rotted corpse of a fox. Settle for something smaller like a rabbit. Rabbit is ideal as nobody knows what it tastes like and you can pretend its pheasant or partridge (pan roasted pheasant or partridge confit).
Hanging out with likeminded thrifty people can be too depressing for words. Rich friends have nicer cocktail parties, nicer living rooms to hang out in, nicer clothes to borrow and might even invite you to their pad in the South of France for a jolly time.
Make do and mend. Learn how to sew buttons, repair zips and fix fasteners. No more disposable clothes. And like Grandmother, put your best foot forward when going out and settle for nothing less than mink when choosing a coat.
NiftyFiftyShades 