Once, I thought nothing of spending the best part of £100 on having my hair done, or £40+ on a pot of face cream that promised to make me glow like a supermodel. I was intimately acquainted with the contents of Boots’ skincare shelves and could spot a new arrival at 50 paces. Each month, I bought armfuls of thick, glossy magazines, which contained pictures of stick-thin models and the odd article hiding amid the glamorous aspirational advertisements.That was in my 20s. Now, in my 30s, I am a true suicide blonde, my anti-wrinkle cream costs a tenner and I don’t shop for a hobby. I am no longer a Cosmo or an Elle girl (although the occasional copy of Grazia goes through the checkout with the bread and butter). Now, I consider it obscene that I spent half a month’s livery or almost a week’s petrol money (I have a long commute) on a jar of moisturiser that smelled divine but was so rich that it brought me out in spots.
Funnily enough, my hair looks just as good as it ever did and my skin is much better. Stopping smoking and plenty of fresh air is more productive than praying for a miracle in a jar. I won’t get fooled again.
