Trinny in Jozi

Posts Tagged ‘beauty

Urban Theresa

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Since I don’t have any time in my days (or nights, for that matter) to write a proper blog post, I thought I’d treat my readers to a spot of urbaning*:

Theresa:

1. A cute, smart, talented girl. She’s really cool and can find humour in almost anything. Everyone likes her. She has a beautiful smile and pretty eyes.
Theresa is too cool for school.

2. Spelled “Theresa”, it was ranked as the 717th most popular name for girls born in 2006, down from 226th in 1992. (It ranked 65th in 1950, and 102nd in 1900.) The name implies one who is destined to work hard, but who will receive great bounty for her efforts. Hot – as people call it, pretty, cute, beautiful, humorous, talented, a hard-to-hate sort of girl. The one that everybody likes.  The name St Therese, Theresa, or Teresa – no particular way of spelling it** – means little flower; a flower representing beauty and grace.
“I will let fall from heaven a shower of roses.” – St Therese.
Theresa, with her natural beauty and grace, will become a woman who changed life as it is.

3. v. To have a major spaz, often including screaming, smacking, pulling hair, and shunning.
She “awoke” and went theresa on the aliens.

4.  Usually a young girl who dresses like a whore to attract innocent teen males; resembles someone from a trailer park; always has her bra hanging out.
Ew, did you see him go to prom with Theresa? Her bra was all over the place!
One question and one request:
Which “Theresa” you think I am?
And let me know about your urban slang persona(e).
The comment box awaits.
* Typically, I couldn’t resist lightly editing the entries, if only for spelling and grammar. This took a little time but was preferable to vomiting in parentheses after every second word.

** Um, I’d beg to differ. I’m very particular indeed about how people spell my name. And about how they pronounce it, for that matter.

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Things I have lost, in no particular order

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Am feeling lazy today: found this old note that I posted on Facebook in August last year, and thought it belonged on my blog with the rest of my ramblings. Hopefully not so much of my stuff will be missing when I pack for Dubai. And at least I finally have some new glasses!

1. Nomvula by Freshlyground – I am so anti copying South African music, but will simply have to in this particular case.
2. My glasses – which didn’t survive the Belville Velodrome last Saturday. Oops.
3. A pair of grey trousers – so very useful for work, but they have disappeared for a while now.
4. The first Nouvelle Vague CD – I have a distinct memory of lending it to someone, I know not who. If you have it, please bring to my party on Saturday! 
5. My long red jacket – I can live without it, but I’d rather not.
6. My Clinique coral lipstick – which I bought at the Edgars beauty sale (beauty sale at work, not beauty sale at shop). And coral shades are so hot right now, damnit!
7. A pair of grey Capri pants – whoever has been purloining my clothes obviously has a taste for grey.
8. My beautiful pink glass earrings – from the glass earring factory in Kenya, where, incidentally, Merryl Streep also buys her earrings. Am holding onto the hope they are somewhere in Grahamstown. GX, please don’t hate me. And if you go to Kenya again, pretty please buy me some more!
9. Random other stuff – hey, I don’t even realise it’s gone yet, but when I remember it’ll hurt.
10. Any chance of a decent night’s sleep – am going to catch a few hours now, so goodnight 😉

Family conversation XXXVII

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Grandmim: You are too pretty; you should get divorced!
T: Um, I may have to get married first…

Written by Trinny

December 28, 2008 at 09.22

Hairy Tales II: Judys Hair

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Naturally, I was delighted to discover that there was a hairdressers, Salon Birgit, attached to the Hotel Schlössle, my accomodation in Vaduz. However, I was somewhat less delighted to discover it would cost CHF86 for a simple cut and dry. This was roughly the same amount I´d paid for all the stripping, dying, cutting, washing and drying I´d had done at H.A.N.D. And I even had a head massage thrown in.

I resolved to get my hair cut more cheaply when I was in London. Walking to the station in New Malden one fine afternoon, I happened to chance upon Judys Hair. There was a notice in the window saying ladies’ haircuts cost £24*, and I was in there like a flash.

The only problem was, the hairdresser was no Beauty. She didn´t know what I wanted; I didn´t know what I wanted; and the result was a presentable trim, but not what I would call a haircut. Granted, there was no longer the possibility of an unwanted mullet sprouting forth from my skull, but that was the best that could be said about it.

I continued the walk down to the station, the customary post-haircut spring in my step strangely absent. Out of the corner of my eye I spyed Sam´s Barbershop. I learned something that day. Never trust a hairdresser who can´t apostrophise. How can someone incapable of constructing a correct sentence, or in this case, phrase, be trusted with the inifinitely more finicky task of creating a proper hairstyle? I couldn´t help thinking I should´ve rather gone to Sam´s, and shaved my head again. If his grammar is anything to go by, at least he would´ve made a decent job of it.

* Trying to convert between francs, euro and pounds (and with those pesky rands demanding to be taken account of also) was, and still is, beyond my elementary mathematics. On that particular trip to England, I later found out that the CHF/£ exchange rate at the time was something like 2.3/1. I had been innocently working on a 2/1 ratio (don´t you just love whole numbers!), so didn´t save as much on the haircut as I originally supposed.

Hairy Tales I: a work of Beauty

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Hair is very important to me. Which isn´t to say I don´t shave mine all off with some degree of frequency. But this means finding a good hairdresser is vital; my hair is perennially growing out, and needs to be skilfully coaxed towards the desired level of chic(k)ness.

Before I left Cape Town, I was fortunate enough to work for a company where everyone understood this hairy imperative. I don´t know if it was official policy, but in our corner of the office it was perfectly acceptable, even encouraged, to take an extra-long lunch break to get your hair cut, as long as we weren´t actually on deadline.

Witness my last haircut before I left. We´d just finished the nine o´clock meeting, when I casually mentioned I was thinking of dying my hair chocolate brown.
“Chocolate brown,” my editor enthused. “That will look fabulous. You must do it. Make an appointment for today!”
“Ja, well,” I hesitated, disingenuously. “I have a long list today, and we´re going to print next week. Perhaps the week after that?”
“Nonsense,” she countered. “Call your hairdresser right away. You can have an extra-long lunch.”

A few hours later, I waltzed into H.A.N.D in Green Point. Luckily Beauty, my favourite hairdresser in the whole world, had a free slot. The truth is, I´m not actually that picky when it comes to my hair. I´m not going to bring in some picture of this week´s latest celebrity haircut, and demand to look exactly like Katie Holmes or Posh Spice, or whoever. I mean, why would I want to look like Katie Holmes, or Posh Spice, or whoever? I just want to look like me. But it is beyond my limited linguistic skills to explain what “me” is hairstyle-wise, especially since I don´t really know myself. In true passive-aggressive style, I want my hairdresser to access my subconscious; analyse my bone stucture and hair type; and come up with the precise haircut I desire, without me having to actually tell her what it is.

Beauty can do all of these things, which is why I love and miss her. On this particular occasion she stripped my hair of its previous redness, applied a gorgeous chocolate-brown dye, and rounded off the effect with a haircut that was the frigging shiznic. Everyone in the office was so dazzled by my transformation they failed to comment on the fact that this time it had been an extra-extra-long lunch.