Showing posts with label Revitalash. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Revitalash. Show all posts

Tuesday, 27 October 2009

New Shoots

Since Nick arrived I’ve been so preoccupied that I haven’t had a chance to keep up-to-date on hair and nail related matters. An inspection shows my right big toenail has started to come away all down one side. This is most disappointing. I had assumed that since the chemo has ended, so would the side effects. Not so, apparently.

I started using the Revitalash last Wednesday night. I‘ve been painting it on in a thin line along my eyelids each night, as per the instructions. I’ve also been feathering little strokes along the line of my eyebrows. So far there is no sign of lash or brow regeneration. As I study my eyes I catch sight of the top of my head in the mirror. It is covered all over with fine white fluff, like baby hair. I’m sure that’s new.

Hallelujah! My hair has started to grow.

Wednesday, 21 October 2009

All Kinds of Excitement

My laptop came home from the hospital today. It has a new logic board and a new super drive. I thank Jesus and all his fairies that I had the foresight to buy the Apple Care Protection Racket, so all the repairs and parts are covered. If you ever need Mac repairs I recommend Amsys. They collect and deliver.

I drive around to Mayhem Mansions to return the Macbook that Ted so kindly lent me. Smells of exotic cooking waft down the hallway as Hugo hurls himself in a frenzied attack at my ankles. The place is jumping. In the kitchen I find Muttiah, just returned from a long trip home to Malaysia and now cooking up a tempest: lamb curry, chicken curry, vegetable curry, rice and pappadums. Ted has just got in from work. He is baking a crumble or something. I hear a joyful “yap, yap, yap,” and Chilli bursts onto the scene, closely followed by Iris and Jamie. Jamie is learning lines for his forthcoming starring role in Bedbound at the Lion and Unicorn Theatre in Kentish Town.

Lounging on various sofas are Valentina, her husband Tom and Lydia, another acting friend of ours (I mean in the sense that she is an actress, not a stand-in friend). “Thyat’s a lovely nyecklacke,” Valentina says to Iris, “is it Swarovski?” “No, it’s Muttyovski,” replies Iris. Muttiah then shimmies in with two more crystal necklaces and present Valentina and I with one each.

Over dinner Valentina announces: “I am so hyappy. Now that I have my British citizenship I am going to buy a Kyasee Ooltimo* machine and open a beauty salon.” “What’s that?” we all ask. “It is the latest, most scientific machine for giving non-surgical facelifts." Valentina explains, "They devyeloped it for people who have had strokes and then they found that the side of their face that was being treated was looking younger than the other side. It’s true,” she declares, “it’s better than buttocks!” By this time the whole table is fainting with delight at the idea of a machine that can give one a facelift and is better that Botox. Furthermore, that we should know someone who is about to own such a machine. “I’ll be your guinea pig, “ everyone shouts at once. “I need it the most,” hollers Lydia. “Yes, but I’ve been the sickest,” I proclaim. “I was deeply traumatised as a child,” Jamie declares, in a melodramatic tone. Then, so as to deflect attention from our greedy graspiness we ask Valentina about her salon plans. “I want to hyelp people, like abused women,” says Valentina with the magnanimity of Miss World. “What, you want to give them facelifts?” asks Ted. “No,” she explains patiently, “I want to make a network of people who can help them.” I am still a little mystified by this aspect of Valentina’s business plan.

The conversation soon turns to ghosts and psychic mediums. Everyone tries to top one another’s otherworldly experiences. Jamie and Iris, in their endless quest for the ultimate crazy fad that will make their lives complete, have recently attended the Spiritualist Church. There, Iris’s long-deceased mother spoke to her. I am quite impressed to hear it. It has been my experience that psychic mediums are a bunch of hoodwinkers but I am always willing to entertain a different point of view. Especially if it is backed up by direct experience of someone whose word I trust. We imagine what ghosts might be stalking us right at this very moment. “The Murdered Maid of Mayhem Mansions?” Iris suggests. Spooked now, we decide it is time to leave.

Valentina dons a black headscarf gives us a marvellous demonstration of how to extract folding money from people by telling their fortune. It seems that the technique is to simply terrify them into handing over the cash.

“I think Valentina will make a wonderful beautician,” I remark to Iris in the car on the way home. “Yes, she is so lovely and so kind,” agrees Iris. Valentina is such a big presence that I have never really had a proper conversation with her husband Tom. “What does Tom do?” I ask Iris. She thinks hard for a moment or two. “Well,” she finally tells me, “he has got some kind of a, um, ah, job!” Iris and I fall about laughing. It’s a concept that is totally alien to us.

I’m back at home now, rushing to get this finished so that I can go to bed. I am tremendously excited that I’m going to start using the Revitalash eyelash grower tonight. Even better than that, Nick is arriving in the morning.

*It’s called the CACI Ultimate.

Monday, 19 October 2009

The Price of Beauty

The tube of Revitalash sits tantalisingly on my bathroom windowsill. I’m compulsively drawn to it. I keep fingering it, picking it up and examining it, reading the instruction leaflet and so on. It’s kind of like picking a scab. I will, however, have patience and hold off until Wednesday night.

I notice that the cylinder contains 4.1ml of potion. At £66.95 that works out to £16,329.27 per litre. (Or at the recommended retail price of $150 it is $36,585.37 per litre.)

I wonder what other commodities carry a similar price tag?

Tuesday, 13 October 2009

Lashing Disappointment

It may have slipped past you in the previous post - the Revitalash has arrived. Once I manage to get rid of all my pesky friends I shred the Jiffy Bag with manky fingernails, fling the packaging aside and grasp the slim cylinder of magic potion. It’s the size of a small tube of mascara. As I scrabble to remove the safety seal Kalamari picks up the discarded box from the floor. She reads the directions on the side and then: CAUTION, followed by a long list of dire warnings including this: ‘WE RECOMMEND YOU NOT USE IF YOU ARE… ACTIVELY UNDERGIONG CANCER CHEMOTHERAPY’

Huh, thanks a lot. They didn’t mention that before I shelled out £66.95. And they have the cheek to put the breast cancer awareness pink ribbon on the box.

Oh well, I suppose I can wait another week.