A Great Face for Radio

And why I wish I’d spent some time on my hair and make up yesterday

I used to get dressed up to go places. Now, dressing up is wearing a pair of jeans instead of tracksuit bottoms. I know I’m not alone, but what happened? I think of my grandmother, her Yardley coral lipstick always perfectly in place on her rosebud lips; her powder compact snapped open and shut several times a day to check for shine, always to hand in the kitchen drawer; her tiny waist accentuated with a belt, a big-collared blouse always tucked in, costume jewellery pearls clipped onto her tiny lobes, pinching her skin.

This was not comfort, and I wonder if she ever dreamed of elasticated waists. But still, she persevered with her day bags and going out bags and little-heeled shoes for errands, and higher heels for evenings and all that malarkey. I can still remember the smell of her Elnett hair, the glass bottles on her dressing table, her shiny hall telephone and the chocolate roulade she made at Christmas. There was a recipe, a dress, a trip to the shops, a telephone conversation, for every occasion imaginable. I don’t know how to live like that, but watching her was always intoxicating.

Of course, there are plenty of women who still go to great lengths to look amazing every time they go out. My daughter is one of them. It’s a proper transformation. Hours of nails and eyelashes and contouring and shaping bottoms and bosoms in the right clothes. I once knew how to transform myself. I’d call my best friend who is a make-up artist, and he would come around and he would curl my hair and give me a ‘smoky eye’.

Where was he yesterday, then, when I went on Woman’s Hour? Over a hundred miles away. Still, it was radio. No need. I was very excited to be asked onto the show to talk about trying for a baby in your mid to late forties. I put on my best jeans, slapped on some make-up, and went to the BBC just off Regent Street. I was taken to a green room, and within minutes thrust into the studio with the presenter, Emma Barnett. I hadn’t been told what to do, other than “Put the headphones on”. There were three sets of headphones, and I wondered if it mattered which ones I chose. Too late to ask that, though! The producers were all behind glass, and Emma was presenting. I chose the ones nearest to me. 

The interview went well, helped massively by the fact that Arlene Phillips was totally kick-ass when talking about being an older mother, and Emma Barnett asked excellent questions. Both real pros. At one point I referred to my boyfriend’s mother as my mother-In-law, then attempted to correct myself and called her my boyfriend’s partner, which, when you think about it is a little confusing. But apart from that fluff up and a little exaggeration (I said that men having babies in their 80s were praised for their virility, when actually, I think most people think the Mick Jaggers of the world are a bit sad), everything went swimmingly. I didn’t sniff, didn’t make too much of that spit-around-the-mouth sound which can be terribly off-putting for listeners. I even answered the questions without going off on too much of a tangent. 

I left the studio feeling happy, like I’d given it my best. 

Then I went on Instagram. I left Instagram about 6 years ago. It did my head in. I spent way too much time late at night scrolling. I never knew what to post. A bunch of flowers or something I wrote or a funny picture of my cat? I got anxiety about not being entertaining enough, which when you think about it is very narcissistic. Anyway, I have gone back on and I don’t know why. Considering I’ve posted 3 stories and one badly cropped post (my daughter immediately messaged me and said “Mum. I have to teach you how to do Instagram!).

Yesterday evening a friend said they’d seen a clip of me on Woman’s Hour so I went to investigate. Seen? Surely heard… But then I hopped on over to the account and saw an edited clip of me on the show. Wow. I didn’t look like I had a scrap of make-up on. And not in a good way. My hair was in a clip that had been in since the night before. I had eye bags and eye shadows. My lips looked thin. My skin looked blotchy. Thank god my hands weren’t in shot! All I could think was: why hadn’t I spent some more time doing my hair and make-up? Nobody told me I’d be on camera. 

Vanity is a weird thing. It’s invasive. If I could just smile exactly how I wanted to for the camera, without worrying about crooked teeth and looking hawkish, then I wonder how I’d look. If I could go back and have sex in all the positions I’d wanted to in my life, without worrying about the rolls on my stomach, or my jelly bum, or the hairs on the back of my thighs or the spots on my bikini line illuminated in the bright lighting, then, Wow! I’d like that. If you asked me now, I’d say I wasn’t really at all vain anymore, but yesterday proved otherwise.

Anyway, back to baby-related things, like embryos, and when my boyfriend and I will know if we’ve got any. Our egg donor is about to start taking the medication that triggers her ovaries to produce more than one egg. I keep thinking of her injecting herself in the stomach, somewhere in London, maybe in student halls because she’s at university. I think about what she’s thinking about. Whether she thinks about us. I feel a lot of love for this woman that I do not know. I wonder if she gets properly dressed up when she goes out.