Keeping up appearances

You’ve got to feel sorry for celebrities sometimes. Being followed and papped at every available opportunity can’t be much fun (although the money and the celebrity friends make up for it a bit, no doubt).

Poor old Kelly Clarkson got a load of stick about a month ago for going out without any makeup on. Admittedly she looked nothing like the Kelly Clarkson we know, in fact you’d be forgiven for walking straight past her, she looked like a bit like Sonia from Eastenders, aged 12. But to me, she still looked lovely and fresh and clean, although not as glamorous as you would expect of a celebrity.

My problem is that as much as I love to wear makeup and make an effort to look groomed, quite often I just forget. I went to Sainsbury yesterday and realised when I got home that I had a blob of something as yet unidentified in my hair (could’ve been pumpkin soup, could’ve been treacle, who knows), I was too busy remembering to write porridge oats on my list that I just didn’t think to look in the mirror before I left. Epic fail.

But at least I didn’t run into anyone I knew, and at least there was no one waiting to take a picture from a highly unflattering angle and put it in the paper, just a funny look from the check out girl which didn’t click until I got home and looked in the mirror.

Personal grooming has taken a noticeable dip since having children, particularly the second time around. I have two other people‘s appearance and well being to consider before my own so rarely get around to myself. I’d love to have the time to put on a full face of makeup and do my hair everyday, but mostly a swipe of mascara has to suffice.

As a result of repeatedly over zealous playtime with his brother and friends, son number one has spent the last year or so with a perpetual black eye. I took him to casualty last weekend because he had a lump on it that hadn’t gone down for 2 weeks. It turned out to be a haematoma, a sack of blood surrounding a bruise, commonly found on boxers. It came just in time for his first ever school photo, so at least he had a nice big shiner for that. He is also a picker. He’s had a bite on his face for nearly 6 months that he won’t stop picking, I keep warning him that he’ll have a hole in his face if he doesn’t let it heal, and he stops, but I know for a fact he picks it when I’m not looking. He also has massive hair, rarely brushed, he’s a standard five year old ragamuffin.

I don’t do ironing as a rule, I just can’t see the point, but now that son number one is at proper school, with his persistent black eye and huge hair, I worry that he will have “sloppy appearance” forever and indelibly marked on his school file. So I now find myself joining the ranks of the other mothers who spend Sunday morning ironing school uniform, hoping that a crisp trouser crease will detract from his otherwise unkempt appearance.

I tell myself that I don’t care about what people think, and appearances don’t matter, it’s what’s inside that counts, but we all know that most people don’t think like that, as the media interest surrounding Kelly Clarkson’s naked face has proved.

It’s like with the house. I love my house to be clean and tidy, I’d love it to be like that all the time, but the sheer effort it takes just to keep on top of the marmite smears on the curtains and bodily fluids dripping out of the sides of nappies on to the floor is more than enough. That extra level of cleanliness and neatness eludes me. It lacks polish, as do I.

One day I will work out how some people manage to keep a perfect house, have ironed, scab free children AND a full face of makeup before 830am (there must be some secret to it) but until then people will just have to take me as they find me, sticky hair and all.