Beauty, beetroot and the bomb

A beauty routine: yes, I do have one.

Probably it is the job of every lady columnist to refer, at some point, to her encounters with cosmetics and smellies, and after four years of bloggery, Chinn-wag now corrects this omission. Momentous!

On the face I sometimes use concealer and powder and, on particularly ghoulish days, will take a slice of beetroot and dab it on the cheeks for colour.

That last habit may seem like a waste of food, but I have astutely calculated the production of commercial blusher wastes far more of Mother Earth's resources than does the occasional vanity slice of beetroot.

Anyway, I promised to regale you with encounters. All right. Last Wednesday I was out of concealer. (Concealer, for readers who do not know, is a substance you can use to mask spots, discolouration, and other things that make you imperfect.) I went to the pharmacy to get more.

A trend has emerged in concealers, whereby a liquid form comes in a plastic stick that looks like a felt-tip pen with a cap at each end. Under one cap is a tiny brush used to apply the concealer.

The plastic tube of the pen is opaque, to prevent your noticing you have paid a significant sum for a meagre few millilitres of concealer housed in extravagant packaging.

The other cap, it would seem, is not really a cap but a twisty knob that is connected to some mechanism inside the pen that is meant to screw the liquid contents upwards and into the brush at the other end, for the purpose of application to skin.

Perhaps unwisely, I did not perfect the twisting technique during my brief fling with the tester in the pharmacy before buying. At home, I twisted and twisted the knob-cap and nothing happened at the other end of the pen. The tiny brush stayed white as a bunny tail. It would dispense no concealer.

Naturally I became enraged. Earlier concealer products worked just like lipsticks: you had a little stick of flesh-tone clay that you wound in and out of its tube. Simple. This new concealer device was evidently one of those products that doubles as an IQ test, and I had failed.

With no dignity to lose, I put the twisty part between my back teeth and tugged. I was hoping the mechanism would come out of the pen, its savage removal at least providing access to the fluid. Instead, it came partway out, releasing no fluid, and then would not retract for further attempts at twisting.

Trying to force it back in, I shoved that end of the pen hard against a doorframe. The mechanism retracted abruptly, which somehow caused the pen's contents to discharge from the brush end in one maddening gloop. I chucked the thing, went to a different pharmacy and bought an old-fashioned lippy-style concealer.

And now I report an encounter with a smelly. On Saturday a friend gave me a bath bomb. (A bath bomb, for readers who do not know, is a cake of salts and powdered chemicals, some synthetic and some organic, and you put it in a hot bath for no good reason, and there it dissolves.)

It was made by the Lush company and two of its ingredients were "fizzy candy" and "golden glitter (polyethylene terephthalate)", plus "golden lustre sparkle" which is apparently different from golden glitter, or polyethylene terephthalate.

Yes, I know what you are thinking. Either of the following two thoughts: why would you put lollies in your bath, and why would you want to send glitter down the drain?

I asked myself those questions and then threw the bomb into the nice hot water anyway. I cannot account for this episode, except possibly I wanted rid of the bath bomb and this was one sure way to that end.

It soon looked as if a citrus-cleaner factory had vomited into the tub. Still, I clambered in, determined to luxuriate with the latest copy of Australasian journalism's insider magazine The Walkley.

The initial lurid orange foam subsided, leaving me in water that looked as if I had peed in it. Quite a lot. I could see the glitter, a shimmering menace beneath the surface. Under my buttocks, a gritty sediment I did not inspect. I began to sweat, not with heat but with anxiety. Clammy! Unclean! Oppressive pollutants!

How I pined for the ocean: clean, cold, exhilarating. I had been in the sea only on Friday, during a mellow dusky pink-grey winter sunset. By hoki that water was cold, and I had loved it.

In my bomb bath, white polka dots with the consistency of soggy bread now floated past. I looked around for ducks. I could not concentrate on The Walkley and what it said about the joys of social media. I rose, drained the tub and, shuddering, showered.



I must admit venturing into the world of Twitter has been an education with a steep learning curve.  Yes I am now officially down with da yoof y'all.  But Twitter can actually be quite interesting and useful.  For example, Anna can send a tweet "new blog entry", "on NatRad soon", "bath bombing now" and get the word out to the masses.  In fact, how about Anna tweeting about her blog post on Anna coming to grips with Twitter?   At the very least we can get a photo of what she's making for tea.

Bomb away!

Lovely laugh-bomb from the unrestrained Chinn-wag! Please keep right on raising spirits by blitzing the gritty little absurdities of life.


Aren't tweeters people who post OMG/WT? and 'Shut UP!' a lot?


Thanks, zfh10. Tweets are limited to 140 characters, you know. I have no such restraint.

Coal fired bath

This was the gas Califont hot water flow. Flares, backdrafts, no matches, no bath.

Bath bomber

I enjoyed that Anna.  I also enjoy your occasional segment on National Radio.  Your mannerisms and turns of phrase always make me laugh, especially your attempt at getting the last word last week!  In short: I like the cut of your jib. :-)  ps. Get on Twitter!