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A long thing about makeup

I dress like an 8-year old boy, don’t wash my hair very often, and regard not showering at the weekend as a form of self-care. But I love makeup.I love all the gauzy, shiny, sexy textures. I love the colours. I like that it is a fairly low-stakes hobby.I like the lack of permanence. I like the associations with times and places and moods. I like that makeup, as an activity, is basically doing a drawing or painting of your face that is also on your face.

Makeup is a sphere in which I’m fully into luxury and allow myself to buy wholesale into PR bullshit, unlike almost every other part of my life, which require me to be hyper-conscious of the politics and meaning of visual material and things. I am not at all innovative in my approach to it, whereas I’m such a trailblazer in almost every other sense, k? With makeup, I can finally relax and not be, like, redrawing the lines 24/7. Women, particularly educated, middle class women, are routinely judged for expending any of their precious money and brain power on frivolity and fluff and waste-of-time activities: as if they should spend their 'spare' time eating unseasoned millet and reading Pinter on a reclaimed church pew. Even beauty columns in women’s magazines have a slightly apologetic tone to them. But guess what, Karen?! Life is hard, so I’ll get mine where I can.

My makeup vibe, if you can even define it so rigidly, is something along the lines of ’cultural worker basic bitch with editorial aspirations’. I will go all in for an overpriced product in a tiny glass container, maybe unisex, perhaps multipurpose, like a balm with an unexpected, modern texture and a subtle colour that is designed to be rubbed nonchalantly onto the cheeks and eyelids of a person who goes surfing at dawn before heading to work at the PR department at Patagonia.

I have had to impose a very modest monthly spending limit for makeup. Not to sound like McConaughey shilling bourbon, but if I’m going to invest financially in a product I have to feel an emotional connection to it, for it to tell a story! I like coming across a photo of a person I admire and working out how to achieve a look that feels similar. I might get ideas from looking at the pictures of Jenny Shimizu taken by Steven Meisel or when Jeremy Scott ‘made under’ Christina Aguilera to look like a soft little cartoon mouse. The inspiration doesn’t need to come solely from makeup – sometimes it’s the colour where the eyes meet the cheeks in the girls on Picnic at Hanging Rock or or Jennifer Finch in a photo shot on 35mm where you can’t tell if she’s wearing lipstick or the film stock is making her look a certain way.

My makeup sometimes gets weird but I generally come out the other side looking like a human and recognisably myself. I’m not out here baking or doing glitter cut creases or gluing down my eyebrows and drawing new ones on four inches above my head, much as I adore a hardcore makeup tutorial and learning about the history of all of these techniques, which all came from drag, btw.

My everyday makeup routine is to not wear makeup. The motivation for this isn’t political or because I desire to only present my ‘true self’ or whatever. It is because I am lazy and don’t leave myself enough time in the morning. Also, I had hormonal acne for a long time and had to spend lots of time on coverage, one of the most turgid and depressing makeup related tasks, so I relish not having to do anything like that now. I don’t get many spots anymore (Accutane), and as a fair skinned brunette I don’t have much need for delineation. However, while I don’t need make up (no one does!) when encounter myself in a public bathroom mirror I am generally not overjoyed with my sans fards appearance. While I love cool girl makeup, most days I wear makeup that enhances my face because I’m vain and I want look better.

When I am moved to actually apply makeup, my chosen ‘studio’ is usually the accessible WC at work. The whole time I’m in there I fear that a disabled person is outside, quietly waiting for legitimate use of the toilet, so a pall is drawn over the whole ‘me time’ vibe I crave.

Mouth

I believe that the best, ultimate lip colour is something in the opaque burgundy-brown-rose area, applied straight from the tube and worn with little other makeup. I like these kinds of shades because they are flattering yet have something – a strength, a character - about them so they read as a look and intentional, rather than ‘flattering nude bridal vibes’. But they are not so different from my natural lip colour that they make me look like my life is falling apart when they inevitably feather or migrate. I like Amsterdam by Nars or Flesh 3 by Pat McGrath.

I can’t do a traditional pale ‘nude’ lip unless I have a lot of make up on, such as a full coverage foundation, multi-dimensional layers of blush and bronzer, a prosthetic nose and a Tim Burton eye. They are honestly so unflattering.

I also enjoy looking together and clean and then throwing the whole thing off with a weird lip. I like one by Bite called Peacock Pearl, which is a racing green duochrome lipgloss. Also once I wore black lipstick to this party of a boy I liked and his friends thought I might be a really uncommitted goth. I’m not certain what my motivation is here: to scare off all the ‘norms’ whose desire it is to look pleasant and approachable at social events?

I love red lipstick, of course - something bright and warm-toned as a lot of reds pull very pink on me. Kosås Phoenix is doing it for me at the moment, and Mac Russian Red always works. Although, because I have dark hair and pale skin, when I wear red lipstick I look like a ska album cover. Carolyn Besette Kennedy (RIP) made red lipstick look casual; I cannot.

Eyes

My eye sockets are so cavernous that the Woodcraft Folk could run potholing excursions in them, but I don’t bother much with coverage. I just roughly smudge on some sheer foundation under my eyes (probably damaging the ‘bag’ area permanently in the process) and call it a day. I hate the look of concealer around the eye, or indeed any ‘base’ eyeshadow colour, especially on the upper lid, and extra especially when it’s not even blended properly into the lash line. HATE IT! Covering dark circles is a boring task and makes me look kind of flattened out. Next!

I don’t wear mascara because I’m a cunt. No, really, it’s because the look it gives is pretty-pretty and I love an editorial, tomboyish eye and the fluffiness of a bare lash. But, you may ask, what in the hell kind of person professes to love makeup but eschews mascara? Probably the kind of tiresome individual who says things like ‘who are the Kardashians again?’ or only drinks vodka tonics. It is one of the few cosmetic products medically proven to make you look better 99% of the time, and God knows, we could all do with a little help. Anyway, I have persuaded myself I don’t need it as I believe myself to have pretty decent, i.e. long and black, lashes. Which is nice and everything, but this is because I am a naturally hairy person. They are a two-for-one deal with my moustache.

I do curl my lashes because these days my eyes seem to be sliding down my face while simultaneously being sucked into my skull. An upwards-curling lash is something of a visual counterpoint to this. I use a Kevin Aucoin (RIP) curler. And I wear mascara when I have on eyeliner or dark shadow and all of that, otherwise it just looks like you can’t do makeup. I recommend any mascara that doesn’t deposit black stuff all over one’s face. Best of luck with finding one!

Fifty Shades of Disarray

I love the Chanel Candeur et Experience palette. It consists of two classic browns, plus a dark red and a cool taupe. I recently learned from an Instagram advertorial that you can mix the four shades together to make a consumptive, faded bruise sort of beige (I routinely Google products I own in order to bask smugly in the PR narrative surrounding them). This is basically the colour of eyelid discolouration. Chanel are so clever like that! I am years-deep into a search for the perfect ‘my eyelid discolouration but better’ product.

I’ve also been experimenting with a 1998 Britney shimmery lilac eye which I achieve with Mehron Paint and highlighter pressed over the top. Mehron is stage makeup. I ‘make it modern’ by applying the colour all the way up to the brow.

Another go-to eye look is a clean, kohl-lined waterline, with a nude upper lid, which is sometimes glossy or with a little definition from the aforementioned consumptive nude colour. It’s a late 90s-early 00s Sisley advert look. I think a really good look is a Evanescence (wtf are my references?!) type eye with a sharp wing above the tear ducts, jutting down towards the nose with uncovered, dewy skin and a few spots.

I enjoy a smoky eye, but you have to keep an eye (lol) on them as they are kind of an active situation. Last time I did a full smoky it looked like someone had done a drypoint etching under my eye.

Brows

My brows are healthy, albeit a little patchy as I came of age in the 90s, blah blah blah. I am currently using a black kohl eyeliner as a brow pencil, which is not ideal.

Fleshes of the Afternoon

Like most suggestible bitches these days, I like my skin to look ‘dewy’ and radiant, as if I am literally tripping balls in a sweat lodge and my face appears, to the onlooker, like an iridescent miasma of ever-shifting foci.

To achieve this look I moisturise generously using Weleda Skin Food on top of my regular moisturiser and apply a low-coverage CC/BB type thing, and concealer where I need it. I like Laura Mercier and the Estée Lauder ‘EE’ creme. Sometimes I amp it up with an illuminating base, which at the moment is a near-empty bottle of Becca Lowlight my mother donated to me. This combo causes fragments of dust, clothing fibres and hair to stick to my upper dermis as if it were a strong magnet. A small price to pay for that glow!

A makeup artist on the internet made a really good point that you should use a full coverage foundation over globs of moisturiser as it won’t sheer out to nothing as with a really low coverage product. I would use Giorgio Armani Luminous Silk for this purpose had mine not dried up in 2011.

On the concealer front I am currently using the Glossier concealer (light and medium mixed, shade fans) on any redness. I was using the really cheap Collection (RIP the '2000' part of their name) liquid one, but have vetoed it as their shade range is extremely limited, and I obviously don't mean for super white people like myself. For covering blemishes I use Amazing Concealer, which, okay. It is good and high coverage, though. I use my fingers to apply both products. I sometimes use a busted EcoTools eyeshadow brush to press concealer around the nose, where my chubby fingers cannot penetrate. Do I clean it often? No. During the acne years I was majorly Howard Hughes-ing it: cleaning brushes after every use and putting on a Hazmat suit to touch my face. Accutane really gave me the freedom to be the grimy dirt witch I was born to be.

I don’t believe in primer.

The chemistry of my skin is such that it devours product. I often come home after a day at, I dunno, the supermarket, to find that I have literally no make-up on whatsoever*. I tried to use powder to mitigate this, but it made me look at least 4-6 years older and also dusty. Frustrated, I did some cursory internet research and discovered Nars Light Reflecting Setting Powder in the shade Translucent Crystal, which is a very good product. I brush this under my eyes and around the nose with the aforementioned dirty eyeshadow brush.

Mount Blushmore

Blusher is really important to me. For a person in a perpetual state of crippling embarrassment, my face is very monotone. I’m really into gel, cream or liquid formats of blusher. When I apply powder blush I observe that it looks very even and flattering but a voice inside my head screams ‘air hostess!!!’ which is not only sexist but ridiculous as there is no planet on which I would be mistaken for one.

I like muted reds and neutrals that double as bronzer. I am fond of Cloud Paint, the gel-textured Tarte cream sticks, and any kind of ‘universal colour’ product, like the Noto Botanics Multi-Benne Stains and this amazing limited edition (brag!) Tom Ford Runway Color AW15, a curious peachy terracotta paste. My hot tip is to dab a bit of blush on the bridge of the nose to ‘bring it all together’ and avoid a Snow White vibe.

Tin Man Realness

I use RMS Living Luminizer highlighter if I want to look like a human, and the Milk Makeup Holographic Stick in Supernova if I want to look like a space alien.

*Yes, this might also be because I apply my makeup atop an undulating sea of heavyweight emollient.
      

Recipe Time: Yuzukoshō spaghetti

This recipe was devised in collaboration with a person who is very special and important to me, but of whom I won't
speak any further as our relationship is both sad and sweet and one of a contrived distance that I'm pinched by thoughts of throughout the day.
Anyway, yuzukoshō is a Japanese condiment made from green chilli and yuzu (a citrus) which is invigoratingly sharp and spicy and tastes really novel and fresh, like the deafening wake-up call you've been waiting for all this time but didn’t know you needed until it was almost too late. You can get it on the internet or in Japan.

Serves one or two


Yuzukoshō
Butter
1-2 cloves of garlic, finely sliced
Too much spaghetti probably as I have never successfully measured out a portion that did not
massively exceed my calorific requirements
Salt and pepper
Optional extras: wakame seaweed (soak in cold water first), parsley, coriander, spring
greens, cavolo nero, sesame seeds, bonito flakes, anchovies, grated parmesan

Cook the spaghetti in boiling salted water until al dente. While the pasta is cooking, heat a generous knob of butter in a pan and fry the garlic until translucent. Add anchovies, greens, seaweed or sesame seeds, if using. Add a tablespoon of yuzukoshō to the butter and warm through. Drain the pasta and retain a little of the starchy pasta water. Add a little of the water to the butter-yuzukoshō and turn up the heat to amalgamate. Add the spaghetti and stir vigorously. Season to taste. Add the herbs, parmesan or bonito flakes (if using) as you remove the pan from the heat.

      

Story Time

I wrote this in 2010, when I was a baby. Athena was based on a person I met while studying on an exchange at the University of California, Berkeley, in 2007. I wrote it for Kazimierz Jankowski's one-issue art writing opus Critical Inquiry.





“A - T - H - E - N – A.”



Athena came from a suburb near San Francisco. After high school she started at UCLA, with a view to major in psychobiology. During her time there she ate two Rice Krispie squares a day and developed a strong distaste for the girls who wore Candies heels and lipgloss to 9am sociology classes. She transferred to Berkeley at the end of her second semester. The official reasons were something about Noam Chomsky, one class on the immune system, a work-study thing, but the Candies girls seemed to be central to the decision.

Athena’s first job was as an assistant to a local photographer. She would travel with him to elementary schools and malls, tasked with coaxing smiles out of sullen children armed with a prop box of dollar-store hand puppets, rainbow wigs and an almost violent will. Meanwhile the photographer would silently adjust the light box and click the shutter, Athena the Laurel to his straight man. Once a boy in grey dress trousers and an Argyll sweater wet himself when he was having his portrait taken. Such was the distraction in the studio, the photographer had taken several frames before the problem was discovered and the child was removed to the bathroom. Athena surreptitiously downloaded the photographic evidence and displayed it in her dorm room in a leather-effect card frame. She would always direct her guests to the image and regurgitate the story between gulps of laughter. The picture was comic in a universal way, like it had been taken for a greeting card, but also strangely affecting: a slight blond child, his face hot with tears and a dark stain at his crotch, but grinning broadly at something to the right of the frame.

The door to Athena’s room was always wedged open with a folded piece of brown cardboard covered in packing tape and peeling black paint. The front of the door was decorated with a large hollow plastic ‘A’ she had recovered from a skip when an AAMCO had closed in her home town, and below that a curlicued cardboard ‘C’ representing her roommate Christa. The inside of the door featured a sprawling photo collage and a yellow Berkeley flag. The cardboard and paint doorstop came from a project Athena had been involved in for Cal Week. Groups of second-year students had been invited to set up information booths at an awareness event in response to the theme ‘Social Responsibility’. Athena arrived at her group’s first meeting with some recordings she had taken from displaced San Franciscan residents during a research visit to the Tenderloin Housing Clinic. Someone proposed that they hand out copies of the recordings in CD format. Someone else suggested that the group produce a kind of deconstructed theatrical presentation with the recordings adapted into monologues to be performed at random and interruptive intervals during the event. Athena rejected most ideas, insisting that they found a practical solution to making people to consider the material properly, preferably in isolation. On the evening before the event the group constructed a long rectangular tube by connecting several cardboard boxes with packing tape. Participants were required to enter the structure head first on all fours and to lie horizontal inside. The interior was painted with black house paint and the recordings played continuously from speakers concealed behind a piece of cardboard. It lay in the centre of the recreation lounge, flanked on either side by an Ohlone basket weaving demonstration and a novelty condom dispenser. Athena named it The Tunnel of Oppression.

Athena always liked to make something for herself, little scenes or scenarios that were communal and memorable and that would throw her best qualities into sharp relief. For this, she needed willing cohorts. The snobby Westwood bitches at UCLA all had a studied, impenetrable self-possession, so had been worthless to her. In her second year at Berkeley Athena was made Activities Coordinator for her dorm floor. Her first event was Showerpalooza, a clothes-optional shower dance party. The same night, her counterpart on the floor below organised a viewing of three films starring a matinée idol-era Ronald Reagan. Athena soon grew tired of the job. She loved the scheming and the bringing together, but bemoaned the petty cash and flyering and polystyrene cups, eventually deciding that if her peers took a more inventive and spontaneous approach to their lives, a job like Activities Coordinator would be unnecessary.

At one party Athena moved towards a heavily-browed boy with sandy hair whom she identified as the note taker from her chemistry class. He and a companion were reclining nearly prone against the frame of a bunk bed, their legs stretched out in front of them. The second boy was darker and sparsely bearded and feigned nonchalance as Athena approached. She wanted to go swimming at some place, a house somewhere and “could they come?” They left through an open fire exit and clambered over the soil beds to a concrete path that lined that side of the block, pausing momentarily for Athena to finish the remains of her Budweiser. The bearded boy rubbed his forearms against the chill and considered fetching a sweater. Athena stood barefoot on the concrete in a mauve vest and cotton shorts. He noticed her left foot was sat half in some slimy run-off from the lawn sprinklers.

They headed towards the more unfamiliar neighbourhood to the south of the campus, with Athena chatting the whole time, pointing out a Scientology centre and a modernist house like a tour guide. “I’ve always wanted to go to this place. You’re lucky.” Housing blocks and coffee shops gave way to a grid of streets lined with modest wood-framed houses and an occasional church. They half-walked half-ran until Athena gave a little hand motion and pushed open a side gate adjacent to shingle cottage and before the others had really caught up, led them past wet pampas grass and bougainvilleas to a scrubby lawn with a dark green swimming pool lit by a dim security light.

Athena walked towards the tiles around the edge of the pool and began to remove her vest. The bearded boy busied himself by dipping a hand in the pool and found that despite the adrenaline, his stomach flipped from the chill. Without speaking, both boys moved towards some white plastic loungers that were at odd angles to the pool on opposite sides, loitering by them before sitting down. Athena carefully slid her shorts and underwear down her over her knees and looped them over her blackened feet. When she curled back upright her crotch was level with the bearded boy’s face, maybe five feet away. He became aware of a heaviness behind his eyes and rolled back his shoulders to remain alert, smiling ever so slightly as he glimpsed his friend's face, solemn and wide-eyed, framed by the dark triangle of Athena's inner thighs and pussy. This made him think of Anne Bancroft and seventies porn and how he was finally having a cinematic experience, something grandiose and elegantly metered and intense that he had come to realise, reluctantly, he was unable to contrive himself.

Afterwards a sodden Athena and her new friends stopped at a 24-hour liquor store and she hustled for a litre-and-a-half bottle of Jägermeister from the more obsequious sandy-haired boy. He paid $34.99 and it remained unopened on the windowsill of her room for the rest of the semester.

An extension of the decorations on Athena’s door, a large, full noticeboard took up almost the entire wall next to her bunk. She tended to it regularly, adding embellishment and adjusting the composition. Nothing was ever removed. Amongst the handmade birthday cards and promotional dashboard toys from Foster’s Touchless Carwash were extended passages of text that Athena had copied out in her looping, wayward script. A quote by Marianne Williamson dominated the centre-left of the board: “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us...” The words YOU MUST DO THE THING YOU THINK YOU CANNOT DO had been painstakingly cut from purple, green and blue sugar paper and pasted on yellow sugar paper with each letter edged with marker pen and ‘(Eleanor Roosevelt -1884-1962)’ scribbled beneath. To the left was a careful pencil sketch of a shot glass and a slice of lemon. Alongside were some Isaac Asimov quotes in defence of atheism and a photograph of a younger Athena sitting cross-legged on a grassy bank overlooking a beach with three other girls, all but one with dark bobbed hair and cut-off denim shorts. Another photograph showed her with longer hair hanging by her arms from the necks of a boy and a girl, her face bleached by the flash. Next to this was a handwritten recipe for a Chupacabra cocktail and a photocopied page from The Iliad, a few lines of which had been highlighted in fluorescent yellow marker pen: "and with them went Athene of the flashing eyes, wearing her splendid cloak, the unfading everlasting aegis…” There were poems, too. Athena’s favourite was one by August Kleinzahler that she had printed from the New York Times website over three pages of A4 paper. It was sparse paean to the Midwest with a quiet anger that crept up on you, and a deliberate counterpoint to all the urgent Sharpie-ringing. To the right of this was a gold Courvoisier label, a Freedom Means Choice bumper sticker, the photograph of the unfortunate boy and a printout of her Berkeley acceptance email. The outer edges were collaged with stickers that resembled strips of bacon, a photo of David Schwimmer cut from Entertainment Weekly, a Peter Max postcard from the de Young, a photocopied drawing of a manatee, and an eleven-point guide to disarming an attacker.

Athena's favourite things to eat were California rolls with soy crabmeat and vegan mayonnaise; frozen yogurt doused in a precise combination of mango sauce, desiccated coconut and Gummi Bears; pesto wholewheat pizza; Hungarian cream cakes; chai bubble tea; plain fried rice (not special) and calzones from an Italian canteen run by Greek Cypriots called Gloria’s. They always put feta cheese in their calzones. The frozen yogurt people loved Athena because during her time as Activities Coordinator she had instigated the 3am Fro-Yo Social, a muted gathering of weekend stoners and adventurous substance free-dorm kids. The sushi bar staff seemed unmoved by her frequent appearances, perhaps because they didn’t like her and her group cluttering the cherry wood waiting area in her pyjama shorts.

Athena’s lovers seemed less inclined towards the malleability she looked for in everyone else: maybe she admired that they had calm acceptance of their own scope of influence. The last I heard she had taken up with a Korean-American girl called Chloe: a sinewy androgyne who styled herself as a kind of late-night, coffee house philosopher. They met while working together at an animal shelter in Oakland and early one morning helped rescue 17 cats and 11 dogs from an electrical fire that had begun in the kitchen.




The Five Basic Tastes, Ranked

1. Umami

2. Salty

3. Sour

4. Bitter

5. Sweet




Recipe Time: Cucumber with Amchoor

Amchoor is a sour powder made from unripe mangoes. Support your local Indian food retailer and buy it there! Make sure to do the salting step as it ensures the cucumbers aren’t floating around in a sea of their own juices.

1 medium cucumber per person (the Persian ones are good)
Salt
Tbsp. amchoor powder (or to taste)

Slice the cucumber lengthways, hotdog pickle-style. Place the cucumber in a colander, sprinkle with salt and let it sit in the sink for at least 20 minutes. Pat to remove any excess water and lay out on a plate. Sprinkle evenly with the amchoor powder.

These are really good in cucumber sandwiches! Follow the process above, but remove the skin from the cucumbers before the salting and draining stage. Butter some white, thinly sliced bread (pain de mie is the best) and place the cucumber slices inside. Cut off the crusts and cut into triangles.
      

Let me talk about my hair for a minute!

My hair is wavy, which the French call ondulés.

It is the hair of a prog rock guitarist: stiff, wig-like, halo'd by frizz; complex and slightly unbalanced in form, like an expensive German cake. There is a lot of it, but the hairs themselves are fine. It is extremely responsive to climatic conditions. It is almost straight in hot, dry weather. When I lived in Glasgow it was curly. I always longed for hair that was soft and flowy and loose - the kind that you can flip about and gently manipulate into a series of informal partings.

I inherited my hair from my father. My mother has the hair of a mustang: straight, steel-stranded, thick and dark. She has the kind of colouring that prompts people to ask if she’s Italian. I have the kind of colouring that encourages people to ask if I’m doing ok. Anyway, my mother’s hair ‘care’ amounts to washing it in the bath and roughly brushing it backwards, after which it immediately ‘settles’ into two uniform fire curtains either side of her face. I literally don’t know how this is physically possible.

Growing up, my hair was always kind of textured, but the frizz arrived as a bonus feature of puberty. Witch hair was apparently acceptable when I was a child child in the early 90s, but I came of age when Rachel Green had that silky, slippery, golden hair, not the Rachel Cut of a few years prior, so, in spite my vocal disdain* for Friends, I became obsessed with straightening it.

My chosen weapon was a mint and white Babyliss straightening iron. It functioned much like a normal iron, in that you could press a button to release a puff of steam. Dubious, as steam is the known enemy of frizzy hair. The water reservoir corroded with overuse, meaning that I was frequently scalded by a rivulet of boiling liquid running down my forearm. A poor workman blames his tools, etc., but straightening my whole head with this device left me looking like my hair was made of felt. So, I usually resorted to tying my hair back into a ponytail and just straightening my fringe and/or the two chunky strands that I teased out at the front, which created an interesting textural juxtaposition with my curly wurly baby hairs.

My straightening capabilities came on leaps and bounds at art college, when I got my hands on some GHDs that I stole from my sister. The patented ceramic technology of the GHDs was mindblowing in comparison to the Babyliss. I maintained an evil Elvira Hancock bob. I could run my hands through my hair without snagging a nail.

But, straightening my hair almost daily was boring and time-consuming. I also developed a fear of leaving my straighteners on and burning down my flat, so would regularly call my flatmates in a panic to get them to check that they were off, which I’m sure they loved. Also, guess what!? Running a 200°C ceramic iron over one’s hair on a regular basis is kind of damaging? So, at around the age of 25, I stopped.

If you are ‘lucky’ enough to have a similar variety of ‘woollen’ hair, all you need is moisture and a deft touch. As soon as you step out the shower, dab the hair gently and apply a small quantity of some kind of grease or unguent to the lower lengths, gently separating the waves with your fingers and restoring the parting. The objective is to curb frizz, impart some kind of a sheen, and to ‘group’ the hair into waves, thus preventing it becoming one giant fluffy triangle. The grease can really take any form. I’ve used olive oil, Body Shop Shea Body Butter, baby oil, and many, many different products actually formulated for hair. Recently I have been putting in a little blob of normal conditioner (having just conditioned it in the shower and washed it out) or some Nivea Soft. Full credit for the latter goes to my good friend Patrick, who has a near-identical hair type to my own. He swears by it.

Sometimes I weave in a tiny bit of mousse, as this helps with separation.

While it is drying, do NOT scrub your hair with a towel like some kind of maniac. Pat it gently, with a t-shirt if you have one to hand. Then leave it alone. It will get stressed out if you mess with it. Don’t even look in a mirror.

If you must use a hair dryer, use one with a diffuser.

In terms of colour, I guess my hair is now dark. It has gone through every permutation of mouse, finally darkening to mid-brown a with an unexpected warm tinge, and then to a cooler dark brown. I now have grey hairs, which I can’t decide if I’m bothered by or not. My grey hairs are a lot straighter and coarser than my brown ones**, so I guess I’ll have to learn how to manage a new hair type in a few years.

I’m not that interested in dying my hair, probably because I had a couple of disastrous experiences when I was younger. When I was twelve, I dyed the front portion of my hair with some Jolen Creme Bleach because I wanted to look like Louise from Sleeper. Sleeper!!! Bless.

*I've seen every episode at least five times.

**Patrick says that if we put our hair strands under a microscope they would look like car wash brushes interspersed with Flumps.




Recipe Time: Cheddar and Lime Pickle Sandwich

I invented this because I wanted an office sandwich that didn't make me want to die inside. Make sure to use a strong cheddar - I like Montgomery's.

Serves one


Strong cheddar
Two slices of robust bread, such as rye
Butter
Lime pickle

Slice the larger lime bits in the lime pickle. Butter the bread and layer with slices of cheddar. Dot the cheese with the lime pickle and eat.



Jenny's Guide to Japan

I spent three months in Japan in 2017, mostly on an island called Sado in Niigata prefecture, but also in Tokyo, Osaka and Hiroshima. Here is an email I sent to my friend about Japan before she went. It is a good basic primer for what is an extraordinarily layered and endless place.


Hi Corinne,

I had a dream the other night that reminded me I needed to write to you. In my dream Tokyo was this long thin city that was easy to understand and move about in. I woke up very confident that I had a handle on Tokyo and was like, 'I’ll just tell Corinne that Tokyo is exactly like Manhattan!' Corinne, I’m here to tell you that Tokyo is NOT AT ALL like Manhattan. My dream had conflated the architecture and vibe of the two cities. Parts of Osaka are maybe like Lower Manhattan in the 70s, but also not.

Anyway, in no particular order, here are my Japan tips, starting with Tokyo:

Watch out for crows!

Convenience stores (conbini) are your friends. Branches of Lawson, 7-11 and Family Mart are everywhere and seem to be open 24 hrs. You may even come across a fabled Natural Lawson, which is Lawson trying to be Whole Foods. I love the onigiri (nori wrapped rice triangles) with ume (plum), and the fried chicken and oden. And the natto rolls! Also the big soft mochis. I really miss them.

Bars (izakayas) almost always do food, and it is usually great. Plus the coldest, most refreshing beer ever.

The yurakucho area is good for Yakitori.

A good word to use in restaurants is ‘osusume’ (oss-uh-su-may) which roughly translates as ‘suggestion’.

In Mita there is an incredible, partially finished self-built house which I suspect the builder/owner doesn’t want to complete as he is focusing too much on the details IMO. We saw him working inside.


Get ramen (not just in Tokyo). A good resource is Time Out as they are always running ‘best new ramen’ ‘top ramen ever’ listicles. I really enjoyed the fish ramen at Nagi in Golden Gai and the tsukemen at Rokurinsha in Tokyo Station. You must try tonkotsu. Ugh, and the Sapporo-style ramen with butter! Be prepared to queue for a bit at ramen-yas, or get there early. Don’t be afraid of the vending/ticket machines – if there are no pictures to guide you, the button at the top left is usually a reasonable choice. Also, Japanese vending machines are magical and will take any banknote, however ragged.

Kappo cuisine is like a cross between izakaya food and kaiseki cuisine, except for the fact it sort of isn't, and if a Japanese person heard me say that I might get banned from the country for life. But these kinds of restaurants are very good if you want a special meal that doesn't cost more than your flight.

Also recommended is a self-directed tour of the designer boutiques in Omotesando/Aoyama. Each store is a unique, occasionally disgusting but often striking architectural marvel. Nearby is the Nezu museum which has beautiful artefacts from all over Asia but most notably a traditional Japanese tea ceremony set. Its quiet beauty is heart breaking! Lovely gardens, too. All of this is walking distance from Harajuku. Definitely wander through the ‘back’ streets to get between these areas. Actually, this applies to Japan in general – always go via the back streets they are the best. Very close to Harajuku is a park with a Shinto shrine (Meiji) which you should visit so you get to experience the fascinating contrast between eye-burning capitalism and eye-soothing religious architecture.

Tsukiji is definitely worth a visit, although it caters to tourists much more than it used to. Also, I think it may have moved recently?

Go to a public bath house.

You must visit one of the big Tokyo department store ‘depachikas’ (food halls). They make Selfridges look like Aldi and Europeans seem like uncouth peasants. I love the rice bran pickles in depachikas (I now have my own rice bran ‘bed’, although its needy ways are wearing on me emotionally somewhat) and the exquisite sweets. Also, keep your eyes peeled for gigantic fruit.

Shimokitazawa is like a toytown close to the center. It’s a bit hipstery but very cute and has really good bars and places to get cheap food.

Uoshin Nogizaka is a quite accessible izakaya that does really good fish. The fried fish bones and the dish with crabmeat, fatty tuna and uni are great.

Sakaezushi outside Tateishi station does great standing-only sushi.

We stayed in the Sakura hotel in Nippori. The main street is a bit touristy but for the most part Nippori is a lovely place to wander around. There are many cats! Also Koenji and Kichijoji are similar.

Hit up Shinjuku and Shibuya at night and drink in random bars and maybe get a migraine if you’re prone to those? No, really, you have to go, but these places are intense. Golden Gai/Omoide Yokocho are ramshackle streets full of the most tiny, idiosyncratic bars close to Shinjuku. There are such alleys all over the city!

We had a special tofu-only set meal in Sasanoyuki, which is an extremely old restaurant in a slightly run-down area. The area has lots of ‘love hotels’, which are great places to have premarital sex away from the watchful eyes of your parents, if you’re into that kind of thing!

Osaka

I really liked Osaka. It’s way more gritty than Tokyo. It’s like an eighties teen’s idea of a dystopian city. It’s the Glasgow of Japan! Down to the fondness for fried foods. But also, it has areas that are overwhelmingly built up and moneyed.

Nipponbashi is a long street that is intense and neon-filled but has a charming sketchiness.

Kuromon Ichiba market is a good place for snacks and pickles and beer, however, yes, it has been taken over a little by tourists.

Shotengai are really extensive covered shopping arcades. There are many in Osaka, some full of activity, markets and places to eat, others semi-abandoned which is cool if you want to take some moody pics on your 35mm slr. I think that there are networks of them around Shinsekai.

We stayed in Nishinari Ward near Dobutsen-Mae station. Near here, more towards the Tsutenkaku Tower (I wish I could be more precise!) there are lots of bars and places to eat okonomiyaki, such as Okonomiyaki Chitose, takoyaki (octopus balls - well, fried dough with pieces of octopus in them) and kushikatsu - breaded and fried items. Further south are extensive streets of shotengai that are some of the poorest parts of Japan. Not to be like ‘poverty tourism!’ but they are very interesting places to wander.

North of Tenma station is a good area for food. From memory, I think kind of south/around Namba is great too.

Northwest of Namba is a ‘cool’ shopping area (I think called Horie) where you can buy a small Japanese t-shirt to prove that you've been to Japan!

You must hit up a classic ‘kissaten’, a Showa-period coffee shop, when in Osaka. For the refreshments, but also for the architecture, which generally has a brutalist-meets-Anchorman vibe. I really liked the one down the street from Hotel Taiyo, where we stayed in Nishinari. Get the ‘western style’ toast – it is like a cloud! Sometimes they do special drinks involving red beans and milk.

Go to a Super Tamade or any supermarket tbh. Your eyeballs will explode.

Kyoto

We didn’t go to Kyoto as we thought it was too ‘formal’ or ‘beautiful’ or some such bullshit. We had hit up a lot of shrines in Sado and were completely exhausted by all the tranquility and beauty by that point. Anyway, I can’t help you with Kyoto or Nara and am jealous you're going! I can recommend you get the Kansai-region rail pass which is really good value - about £60. I loved travelling from Osaka to Hiroshima on the bullet train.

xx




Recipe Time: Tuna Pasta

An old family recipe. I ate this almost weekly as a child. The texture should veer on sloppy; this is not some austere Umbrian dish. If you have even a hint of a notion to use fresh tuna, you should not be making Tuna Pasta as you clearly don’t ‘get’ the dish.

Serves one or two


Farfalle (bowtie) pasta
Double cream
Tinned tuna, preferably in oil and dolphin friendly
2 tablespoons of tinned sweetcorn
Fresh flat leaf parsley, chopped
Black pepper

Boil the farfalle in salted water until the folded centre of the bows are inevitably still very hard and the ‘wings’ are borderline mushy. Meanwhile, heat some double cream in a saucepan and simmer until it thickens. Add the tuna, omitting the oil or water it is sitting in. Break the tuna down with a wooden spoon until the tuna and the cream are as one but still have something of themselves left over. Add sweetcorn. Drain pasta and add to sauce. Add a little extra cream and stir in the parsley as you remove the pan from the heat. Add salt to taste and season with lots of pepper.




Names of things I've made up

Naming things is fun. Let’s take a closer look at some of the names that I've helped create.

Critical Dick
CD was a semi-imaginary boyband consisting of five students in my year on the MFA at Glasgow School of Art. I was their self-appointed manager. I started going out with a member of 'the Dick', which was probably the death knell to them achieving any real success or indeed being real in any sense at all.
Once Bitten, Twice Shier
OBTS will be the name of my friend Patrick Shier’s autobiography if he ever writes one.
Bobby La Monte
BLM is the name of an artist me and my friend Julia made up during ‘A’ Level art lessons. Bobby’s whole thing was naïve drawings of animals, in profile, but with faces that faced straight on, like this:



‘La Monte’ was almost certainly after the minimalist composer La Monte Young (RIP). Mark Webber from Pulp was a fan of Young’s, and I was a fan of Pulp, which is how I’d heard of him when I was 17 years old.




A haiku

Left my Co-op bag
At Crab’s next to the aloe plant
Missed my lash curlers

      

Recipe Time: Taleggio, Crisp and Preserved Lemon Sandwich

Yet another Anglo-Italian, fat-laden offering that also benefits from being high in salt. It is important to let the taleggio come to room temperature before making the sandwich. This is also very good when made with a sweeter, softer kind of bread and lightly toasted in a panini press or toasty maker, in the style of a Cuban medianoche.

Serves one


Ripe taleggio cheese, thickly sliced
Two slices of sourdough-type bread, medium thickness
40g preserved lemon, roughly chopped
One packet of premium ready salted crisps such as Tyrrells or Kettle

Toast the bread lightly and leave to cool. Apply the taleggio to one slice and sprinkle evenly with the pieces of preserved lemon. Top with a one to two-ply layer of crisps, and, of course, the other slice of bread.

      

Recipe Time: Miso Sesame Sauce

Use this delicious, gloopy sauce on vegetables, salad, meat and fish. It's pretty salty so go easy.


Sesame oil
Sweet white miso paste
Light soy sauce

Mix roughly equal quantities of the miso and sesame oil and add soy sauce to taste. Whisk or stir vigorously to combine.



Katya’s Best Looks

Katya Zamolodchikova is a woman and co-presenter of the best TV programme of all time, UNHhhh. There’s a lack of consistency and sometimes, logic, to her clothing choices, which I can personally relate to:



“I'm giving you 1980s, lesbian literary agent, disinterested, pissed-off Ellen Barkin fantasy.” - Katya



I love long hair and a baseball cap. This brings back memories of the time I stayed up until 3am on Ebay to bid on a leather pencil skirt with vintage Formula 1 appliqués to wear to an ICA book launch because I boy I liked might be there.



This is a bad shirt that looks like it’s from Oliver Bonas. What Katya has done here, successfully I might add, is accessorised it so aggressively that she’s taken the shirt from Oliver Bonas to Florence + Fred. Smudging an outfit with cheap accessories makes it look like you’ve randomly picked it off a friend’s floor and not spent £49.50 on it. I call this ‘downtowning’. Also, I was going to wear a similar look from the waist down to a They Shoot Horses, Don't They?-themed party that I wasn't technically invited to. But don't worry, in the end I couldn't go!



I love this graphic, Sixties-inspired look and custom, six-fingered gloves. I do wish she had stuffed the sixth ‘finger’ so that it looked like a real finger.





I once went charity shopping on absinthe.