That, of course, is not the point, so I ignore her and pluck up the courage to casually ask what the ‘HD’ stands for. She looks at me incredulously and yells, “You know, like HD TV – high-definition.”
“Oh. Thanks,” I stammer. Ah-ha, I think. Now I know. High-definition means higher resolution, which means bigger and bolder… on my face? I experience a vivid flashback to a Christmas party where I simply could not take my eyes off the number of clown-like, thick black eyebrows staring back at me. Oh God, oh no.
It is late evening, and Geoff and I are in bed. I casually mention to him that I am going to visually enhance my eyebrows. I like the sound of this definition; it exudes sophistication.
“What’s that, then?” he murmurs from behind his iPad, his eyes still on the screen. “Does it cost?” I don’t think he is really listening. I poke him. I am worked up with excitement and I want to share this moment with him.
“Hey, are you listening? This is my first real challenge.”
He hasn’t a clue what I’m going on about. I still don’t either, but I don’t want to seem uneducated, so I authoritatively explain. “Thicker and darker eyebrows are on trend, and…” In one long breath, I shoot out a definition that I memorised earlier from a fantastic article I found in my lunch break on Browbabes.com.
I exhale and wait for his reaction. Nil. However, I am prepared for this. I take another deep breath and fire out what I consider to be a simply awesome reason for having the brows: “HDs emphasise your eyes, frame your face and make you appear rested, as if you have been on holiday”. Ta-dah. I breathe out again. There is a pause. Geoff lays down his iPad and rubs his tired grey eyes that so remind me of Pippa’s. Then he fastens them on me.
“Why on Earth do you want to look like a clown, Amy?” he yawns. “I’ve seen those brows on the girls at work.” He notices the time. “Ha. 11.20.” He takes his customary drink of water and turns out the light without waiting for me to close my book. We lie in the darkness in an embrace and I feel him drift off to sleep.
Saturday, 10.00 a.m.
How to get the best HD brows ever? I sit at the kitchen table imagining the admiring looks and comments I will receive. However, I’m not totally convinced. The Clown Brows tag just won’t go away and I have got major butterflies.
What is it that I fear about this challenge? I ask myself, taking a bite of fruit scone. I’ll ring Cate for advice and reassurance. She has a monthly facial, so she might know. And she is sensible, placid and pragmatic. I finish my scone and make the call.
“Hi, Ames – how’s things?”
“Will getting the HDs be a bit like a trip to the hairdressers, Cate?” I ask. “You know, kinda like when I was in my late teens and experimenting with my hairstyle and colour? I’d go in with an idea of what I’d like and I’d always take one of those hair mags along so that we could discuss it first. Is the HD experience like that?”
“I’ve never had it done myself, but last time I tried a new hairdresser for a cut and colour, I ended up in tears ’cos the ‘warm brown’ turned out almost black and made me look like a washed-out witch. Luckily, it was semi-permanent, so it faded after a few dozen washes,” she laughs.
My finger automatically moves to my mouth and I begin to chew rhythmically. “How can I best minimise the risk of a total disaster?”
“Go to someone you know and trust – like Harmony, perhaps – and remember that they will eventually fade,” Cate chortles.
I spend the entire afternoon scrutinising copies of Now and Heat magazines, rating celebrities and their brows and assembling a collage of ‘Best Brows’ that I will take with me to the beautician’s on the appointed day.
“When are you going, Mum?” asks Pippa, casting her eye over my efforts.
“I’ll call Harmony at the salon on Monday, but I have until Friday to complete this challenge, so there’s plenty of time,” I smile.
“Just let me know the day so that I can warn all my friends,” is her catty reply. “Why don’t you just forget about this one and move onto the next? Who’ll know and who’ll care? Is it really that important to do them all? You’re too old and you’re going to look terrible. I hope all your other challenges aren’t as inappropriate.”
I pick up the Bowl of Chance and Opportunity, and as I stir the contents with my finger, a swirling fireball of determination surges through me.
“What will be will be,” I say brightly. “I care and I will complete all fifty-one challenges, whatever it takes. Nobody is going to persuade me otherwise. This is my first real test, so please accept it and be happy for me.”
This is non-negotiable. Don’t give in to her, I say to myself. Inside, I’m whimpering. There are another forty-nine ‘tests’ to go; one to work through every seven days. This one seems bad enough. What is to come? What have I done?
I find an article on the internet entitled ‘Avoid Scouse Brows’, print it out and put it in my bag. Now I feel slightly better. I have absolute evidence of the look I definitely don’t want. What can go wrong?
Monday afternoon.
The proud owner of two dark facial slugs attempts to slink seductively down the road, trying to catch her reflection in every shop window she passes. I deliberately outstare people to check out their reaction. I think that they are grinning appreciatively but it’s not easy to tell. I don’t half feel self-conscious. This just feels so wrong. I speed-walk to the car park to find a decent mirror.
It is only when I’m back in my car that I am able to fully appreciate the full HD effect, and I don’t like what I see – not one little bit. My eyebrows have been tinted, waxed and plucked, and they look as if they have been stencilled onto my forehead with black marker pen. They are dark. This isn’t just high-definition – it’s high-intensity. I look seriously scary. How can I go home or – even worse – go anywhere else looking like this? I need to think – and fast. I grab my mobile. I know who to call in a crisis.
“Bea, I have the brows,” I wail.
“Do you look rested, as if you have been on holiday, then, pet?”
“No. I’m supporting two leeches and it looks as if I’ve been the victim of a Stag night prank. I don’t feel at all in touch with the youth of today, I just feel bloody stupid. The phrase ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ springs to mind. What can I do?” I squeak. I hear frantic tapping from Bea’s end. A number of options race through my head. I could wear a very stretchy hat pulled down low over my forehead, or shave them off and pencil them back on…
“It says here that the tint is semi-permanent and will gradually wear off with water,” she says.
I am reminded of what Cate told me about her hair colour fiasco. “So, should I do that, then?”
“I think so,” replies Bea. “Send me a selfie, pet, and let me assess you.” I do as she asks and wait for the inevitable reaction. “Ha ha, pet – start scrubbing.”
9.00 p.m.
“I hope my challenges aren’t all like this one,” I mutter into my bathroom mirror as I bathe my eyebrows in shampoo. “I can’t believe it was given to me as a warning against future fashion faux pas?” And then, all of a sudden, I get it. “It’s important to keep in touch with the youth of today because it’ll keep me young in mind, body and spirit,” I say aloud to my reflection. I pause. “And,” I almost shout at myself, “I recognise the importance of remaining connected to my children as they grow up. If I do, I’ll have a better chance of being able to support them through the ups and downs of life. I must find better ways of keeping the communication channels open, mind. Getting a set of HD slugs will never help me to do that. Lesson learned.”
Week Four. Friday, 6.30 p.m.
Pippa draws my next challenge, reads it to herself and mutters something under her breath. “This is as bad as the last one. Good luck, Mum. You’re going to need it,” is all she can say before bursting into hysterical laughter and tuning back into
her mobile. I hold out my hand for the slip of paper. It says:
MOSH IN A MOSHPIT.
“Great.” I smile at her wanly. The phone rings before either of us can say any more. Ah, it’s Grandma. Grandma is eighty-six, is hard of hearing and peppers her sentences with Yiddish.
“Amy! What are you up to? I’m going meshuggeneh that you haven’t called.”
“Well, Grandma, I’m going to be busy next weekend. I’m going moshing.”
“What, bubelah? You’re going to be a moshling?”
“No,” I shout down the phone, “Not a moshling, I am going moshing.”
“Why didn’t you say? Just remember to keep your mouth shut and wear a hat.”
I hold the phone away from my ear. That’s a strange comment to make. I think she’s finally going loopy. I let her finish and say goodbye. I need to calm down and think rationally. What shall I do?
8.00 p.m.
Pippa lets Bea into the house and leads her to the lounge, where I am lying outstretched on the floor, eyes closed, attempting to listen to a relaxing CD while Evie wafts a bottle of lavender essential oil under my nose. It’s not working.
“Amy, pet,” she says, sitting by my side and stroking my hair. “Stop stressing about a dancing challenge. At least it’s more exciting than that creating your family tree one from last week.” She delves into her bag. “Here, have a glass of Pinot Grigio and a breadstick.”
Geoff pokes his head around the door. “Still panicking about the mosh? You get to go to a gig. What’s not to like? I’m watching a highly informative programme about stress where a woman has developed a real talent for achieving instant relaxation by orgasming through word association. Every time she says or thinks ‘balloon’, boom! Learn how to do that, Amy. That’ll sort you out when you’re crowd-surfing. Try ‘scone’ – you love those.” Geoff winks vivaciously and closes the door behind him. What? Bea and I look at each other. I can’t think of anything worse. I would be a wreck if every time I said or thought of the word ‘scone’, I lost control. I love scones too much.
11.25 p.m.
Geoff is on his e-reader (as usual) when I flop into bed beside him, ready to apologise for my tardiness. However, tonight, he doesn’t appear at all bothered that it is past his usual ‘go to sleep’ time. He has other ideas. Ever since we married, he’s only ever wanted sex on a weekend before eleven, something that I’ve never questioned and been happy to accommodate. My attention is alerted to the significant fact he is using his official ‘I am ready for date night’ voice and his breathing is laboured.
He’s as handsome as hell when we’re in bed, I think to myself, as he pulls me towards him and wraps his arms around my waist. I bury my nose in his hair, run my hands over his six-pack and drink in the heady, alluring scent of his expensive aftershave that I love so much. When he’s horny, he makes me feel so special. I’m so lucky to have him in my life.
Sunday.
It’s time to consider moshing and I have lots of questions. What is a mosh pit and how exactly do you mosh? I think it’s similar to pogoing. I had a go at that, aged fourteen, at a school disco, when punk was ‘in’. What about crowd-surfing? Is it like being on a travellator at the airport? What is the probability of serious injury (bad) or groping action (not so bad)? How do you dismount from the human travellator? I turn to Facebook to find a moshing expert. Distracted by Evie, I type If you know anything about moshlings, please private message me, and press Send without checking.
By midday, ten replies to my moshling request are sitting in my inbox. I message each of them back, thanking them for their time, and start again. “If you know anything about ‘moshing’, please message me.” Send.
That afternoon, I discover that Claire’s son, Ewan (aged seventeen), has ‘stellar pit experience’ and is a huge fan of Slit Killer. He thinks that my challenge will be great ‘mum education’ and has invited me to a gig with his mates. He’s assured me they will help me to achieve my challenge, and, very importantly, take care of me should any mishap arise. The way he describes a typical mosh sounds alright. I love dancing, so perhaps I have misjudged the situation. I leave the arrangements in his capable hands.
Claire sends me an email. I open the attachment. It’s an article entitled ‘Essentials for Moshing Virgins’ – and there are pictures. Ha. This really is mental, I think as I read, but at least I now know exactly what a mosh pit is. I wonder if everyone has been just a little economical with the truth, though. Moshing is extreme pogoing – violent, body-slamming, aggression-releasing dancing. The thought of being doused in the sweat, saliva or blood of complete strangers and possibly catching something unpleasant doesn’t quite appeal. If I read any more about this, I know I won’t go, and I will fail the challenge. I want to cry. I sit in front of my bedroom mirror and use self-talk to try and take control.
I can do this and it will be fun. Lots of women mosh. People of all ages go to gigs and dance, and I am capable of joining them, I declare with passion. I smile at my reflection, repeating my mantra twice more. And then I reason with myself. If it was that dangerous, it would have been banned by now, wouldn’t it? Yes, it would. And remember how my parents used to react when I went anywhere? I used to think they were past it, over-protective and unable to relate to me. And what did I do as a result? I pause. They tried to stop me living my life and live theirs instead. That’s why I did what I did. “I won’t be old, boring and out of touch like they were,” I say aloud. “I mustn’t lose my children.”
Have you forgotten your other challenges already? scolds my inner voice. You said you wanted to remain youthful in body, mind and spirit.
Yes, I did – and I do, I reply.
A text pings into my inbox from Ewan:
All set for Thurs.
Pick you up 6pm.
No dresses or heels
and def no handbag.
Mosh Night. Thursday, 6.00 p.m.
Sandwiched between Ewan and his mates in the back of Claire’s people carrier, I try to mentally prepare myself for what is to come. Claire is the designated driver and has decided to come along to the gig to record the event on her phone as a ‘memento’.
I am wearing what I consider to be suitable clothing: a bright red long-sleeved top, leggings and pumps. I reason that if I wear red, it is more likely that my protectors will be able to see where I am at all times and keep me safe. I’ve tied back my shoulder-length hair, but I have had to keep my glasses on as I have run out of contact lenses. This concerns me slightly, for if I lose them, I will be as blind as a bat. Then again, I reason, this might work in my favour, as I won’t be able to make out all the mayhem going on around me. The lads are knocking back cans of cider and there is a lot of seventeen-year-old banter about women, music and – er – women. I sit quietly between them, eyes closed, focused on controlling my breathing.
I have decided to remain stone-cold sober. After browsing some hard-core images of moshing late last night, I am concerned that if I drink any alcohol at all, there is a distinct danger of me throwing up over the crowd as I surf along or weeing in sheer terror.
Claire, on the other hand, is simply buzzing with excitement. “I can’t wait to see you up there, Ames.” She catches my eye through the rear-view mirror and smiles supportively. “You must let me know what it feels like. I wish I had the guts to do it but Bob won’t let me. He’s so boring – unlike your Geoff. Never wants me to try new things. Bloody old before his time. He hit forty and turned into his father overnight. Now all he’s interested in is golf, gardening and our annual holiday to the Canaries and always to the same flipping apartment. We keep telling him that his lack of adventure is killing off his brain cells but he won’t listen, ha ha.”
“Ummm,” I murmur, deep in concentration, feeling ever so slightly light-headed.
We arrive at the venue and hurry towards the entrance. I notice an old man selling plastic rain
ponchos. “Doesn’t look like it’s going to rain tonight,” I remark, looking up at the clear sky. “There’s not a cloud to be seen.”
“Oh no, love, it’s gonna piss it down,” he replies. Claire buys a poncho.
Inside, it’s dark, sweaty and loud. The din from the warm-up act is overwhelming. Claire disappears to the balcony to get ready to video my challenge, leaving me alone with the guys. Ewan signals to me to follow him and leads us to the front of the stage. I’m trying to appear cool, when really I’m terrified.
The warm-up band leaves the stage, and the Slit Killer crew starts to prepare. The room begins to fill. The temperature is rising, the buzz is getting louder and I am becoming more nervous. There’s a bit of jostling, and a guy to my left stands on my foot. I poke him, and he turns to glare at me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have done that, I think, as I see the HATE tattoo on his forehead. “Do you mind?” I bellow.
“Fuck off, grandma,” he mouths, but before I can retort, the hall is plunged into darkness, the music starts, the room explodes and the elbowing begins. The HATE tattoo guy throws a bottle of liquid over me, and without thinking, I jump on his foot –HARD.
Smack.
Nothingness.
Next thing I know, I am being offered a cup of sweet tea by the St John’s Ambulance crew. Claire is beside me, frantically checking her phone. Tears are spilling down her cheeks, and she can hardly speak for laughing.
“Bloody hell, Ames,” she splutters. “It’s only been twenty minutes and we’ve had two thousand hits on YouTube. We’re going viral. You’re a celeb. Here.” She shows me the recording and I watch in silence.
Apparently, I was smacked in the head and knocked out. A steward automatically triggered a health and safety announcement, the band was told to stop playing, the lights came on and I was passed over the crowd – backwards – towards the exit. I see that as I am crowd-surfed out of the venue, unconscious, the entire crowd is booing. I also notice that as I float along on a sea of hands, there seems to be a lot of water flying around. “Did the fire sprinklers activate automatically?” I enquire innocently. Claire erupts again.
51 Weeks Page 2