So many of what you might call the external trappings of femininity I put to one side during the pandemic: handbags, lipstick, earrings and jewellery of any and all sorts, even my wedding ring.
No dramatic reason for the latter, just that all that hand sanitiser was causing skin irritation where metal met flesh.
I survived very well without all these accoutrements, which are nice to look at and can bring pleasure but are ultimately unnecessary.
There was one thing I missed, however, and strangely it was something I wasn’t even particularly accustomed to.
I felt like a cowed schoolgirl sent to the principal's office for conduct unbecoming as I was quizzed about what products I used and when
I could probably count the number of facials I’ve had in my life on the fingers of two hands, but as business closures continued I was surprised to find myself craving the soothing strokes of a beautician’s skilful fingertips across my cheeks, forehead and neck.
Facials are everything I recoil from, in some ways. I find them self-indulgent, expensive and time consuming. But there could be no mistaking how much I longed for one during lockdown.
Experts were right to predict, shortly after the impact of Covid-19 began to be felt, that isolated people would start to suffer because they were deprived of simple physical contact with other humans. Touch starvation, some called it.
The power of professional touch cannot be underestimated, not to mention the tantalising promise of spectacular rejuvenation through the magical power of creams and lotions, which does require a certain suspension of scepticism.
Finally, I got an appointment for a facial and the process was hypnotisingly blissful, leaving me temporarily suspended in that gorgeously groggy state somewhere between calm sleeplessness and restful wakefulness.
But I’d forgotten about the rude awakening during the obligatory lecture afterwards, when the beautician with products to flog takes the treat out of treatment by ruthlessly critiquing the condition of your skin, inexpert cleansing routine and general lack of discipline and moral fibre. Or so it can seem.
I felt like a cowed schoolgirl sent to the principal’s office for conduct unbecoming as I was quizzed about what products I used and when, and found myself blabbering pointlessly about having been gifted this fancy set at Christmas time but now everything was used up and I was just slapping whatever I could beg, borrow or mostly steal from my mother, husband and even children on to my face.
The formidable beautician arched a perfectly waxed eyebrow – they take this lark very seriously indeed – and proceeded to inform me at great length about the ins and outs of the five-step skincare regime I should be practising morning and night. It sounded exhausting.
A small voice in my head was saying, “Tell her you might be considered moderately successful in some other areas of your life”. But her disapproval was so relentless and all-consuming I didn’t dare speak up.
She then put the tin hat on it by handing me a card featuring a bland image of a generically beautiful face on the side of which she had drawn arrows pointing to three damning words she had scribbled: “dull”, “dehydrated” and “unbalanced”.
Turning to the other cheek, she wrote: “sensitive”. Well, it was certainly how I felt after such a bruising encounter.
I suppose it is often easier to be brutally honest about others than it is to be totally truthful about oneself.
I don't know much about personality tests, except that they frighten me a little because I assume they require totally honest answers, and I know I would find that difficult
During lockdown, I found I embraced my inner introvert and was quite content to step off the constantly spinning hamster wheel that my life had become with working full time; running for commuter trains and buses; being late for or missing school drop-offs and collections; packing lunches; transporting children to sports and other activities; travelling to the extremities of the country to visit family and in-laws at weekends; trying and mostly failing to maintain friendships, and so on and so on.
In reflective moments, for which lockdown sometimes allowed, I even wondered if the “hail fellow well met” character I had fashioned myself into over the years was the real me, and I hadn’t somehow smothered the quiet person with a preference for solitude I once used to be.
I don’t know much about personality tests, except that they frighten me a little because I assume they require totally honest answers, and I know I would find that difficult.
I’m the type that squints and fakes their way down an eye chart during an optical examination – attempting to confidently assert that a tiny “D” down near the bottom is actually an “F” – to avoid losing face in front of the probably exasperated optician.
What if a personality test proved that I’m the opposite of what an exciting person should be? Cowardly when I should be brave; a hopeless homebody in a world where it’s deemed better to be adventurous; terrified of talking to strangers at parties rather than enjoying the thrill of getting swept up in an unfamiliar social whirl.
We all know what image we wish to project. I want to embrace the sea swimming trend, and I’ve tried it, but being cold makes me feel so pitifully wretched that it’s not something I can realistically force myself to continue doing.
I’m forever trying to fool myself, but no doubt the truth will always out.
Being exposed can be frightening, but it can be liberating too to be unmasked.
