I spent two and a half hours in the hairdresser's yesterday. So if you know me and you see me you better notice the hair, ok? But I digress.
For about half of those two and a half hours I was reading celeb mags. (Kylie is being very brave. Kate Moss is in rehab in Arizona and also being very brave. Victoria Beckham isn't eating enough, but Romeo is sick and she's being very brave. Jennifer Aniston has made up with her mother but isn't over Brad yet and is still being very brave. Katie Holmes will have to give birth to her Scientology baby silently and without drugs so will have to be very brave.)
A substantial proportion of the female population reads these magazines every week. It's easy to argue that they are mostly harmless, but they did leave me feeling (as they always do) a little bit disgusted with myself and at the same time a little bit envious of those bodies, those clothes, that shiny lifestyle. And a little bit ashamed of feeling like that. Great.
Then I came home and read a really bloody depressing article in the Guardian about the male equivalents -- Nuts, Zoo and Loaded. It's all harmless fun you see. Men aren't so stupid that they can't tell the difference between Paris Hilton tied up in the nip and the women in their own lives. "It's pure escapism. They know real women aren't like that," said the editor of Loaded.
Yeah well of course they do, but doesn't it make them feel just a little bit shit about themselves? Just shit enough to not want to do it very often?
I think they're all a bit like speed. Cheap and rushy, but sapping of your life force in general and your more generous personality traits in particular.
As an antidote, I'm working through my Billy Bragg back catalogue. And later we're off to see the Fall. If that doesn't work, I'm not sure what will.
joella
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