“That is a lovely colour on you.” I grimace in a hopeful fashion, while wondering why she hasnt let me look in a mirror for the last half hour.
“Now, this is a new product, this one that I’m going to use on you today. It’s imported from Australia because it harnesses all the wonderful natural resources they’ve got over there in the rainforests and the Great Barrier Reef.”
I don’t give a shit, I think, furiously – just slap it on and let’s see if it looks any good. Spare me the waffle.
“It’s called Lux, this one, because it breaks down the dry skin cells that are all over your face – you’ve got lots – and makes them generate luminosity which makes your skin look younger.” I nod, as though this makes a shred of sense. She, of course, has perfect 24 year old skin, buried beneath a pebble-dashing of bronzer, highlighter and, no doubt, Lux.
She then proceeds to douse my eyelids with a blizzard of eyeshadows and spends a good 10 minutes stroking my lashline with eyeliner. It appears she’s going for the Full Winehouse.
Now, when I give you the mirror, you might think it looks a bit too much. But – I tell all my brides, this might look a bit extreme on the day but it’ll show up lovely in the photos. And those are the bits that you’ll keep forever, aren’t they?”
Yes quite, not the marriage, not the memories or the groom. The bloody photos. I decideh there and then that photos, like makeup artists, are not welcome at my wedding.