…as Arnold Schwarzenegger would say.

I’ll Be Back: Arnie as The Terminator photo credit

And I will, Aromatherapy Associates. You betchya sweet-scented ass I’ll be back. For these luxurious oils are to stress and tension what Arnie is to the big screen: The Terminator.

One thimble-sized capful of the potent blend of essential oils found in each frosted glass bottle has the power to sucker-punch aches and pains and KO your cricked neck. The stubby 55ml bottle may not look like a Hollywood heavyweight, but don’t be fooled by it’s diminutive stature – this badboy can certainly pack a punch.

A capful of this oil is even enough for a big bird like moi

At first glance, I was dismissive: as a super-tall woman who stands (ok stoops) for endless hours in a beauty shop (yes, I sell similar products; I know my stuff), I have a tendency to carry a lot of tension in my neck and shoulders. When I invest in bath products I like to glug plenty into the tub. It follows that I like my bath-time buddies as I like my men: tall, generous and strong. I expect a lot of bang for my buck, so to speak. So as soon as I clocked the hefty £45 price tag on this little fella, I almost dismissed it out of hand, in much the same way I’d dismiss Danny Devito as a potential love interest. This cheeky lil chappy just wasn’t doing it for me.

De Mama and I on our way out for a day of beauty buying

It was my mum who persuaded me otherwise, having had a satisfying experience with it herself. “Don’t judge a book by it’s cover” she advised wisely with a knowing look “it’s worth every penny.” At five foot nothing, my pint-sized mama knows that good things can come in small packages. And boy was she right.

After a consultation during which we closed our eyes and inhaled our way through every tester in the rack, Mum opted for Deep Relax (a knockout blend of vetiver, chamomile, sandalwood and patchouli), whilst I was drawn towards Inner Strength (an uplifting combo include clary sage, frankincense, geranium and ylang ylang). I was also given a 3ml bottle of Hydrating Nourishing Face Oil as a freebie, which I obviously didn’t turn my nose up at (quite the opposite – containing jojoba oil, evening primrose, sandalwood, rose and patchouli, the aroma is absolutely divine).

I couldn’t wait to get my new fella back home and whip him out of his attractive packaging. Within minutes the bath was run and we were naked (don’t judge; older women know what they want – we don’t mess about). I sloshed a capful of the oil into my bath and slightly more than a capful of wine into my glass.

Like most people, my morning routine is a speedy shower – so when it comes to my day off or an evening of pampering, I like to set the scene with military precision: cold glass of white, lights off, candles on, hair up; ipad propped on the shelf near the bath with my favourite show on catch-up. Bliss.

My senses were instantly assaulted by the strength of the top-quality fragrance of this bath oil – my house smelt like a spa – and as I sank into the steaming water (I know it’s not good for you but I love a red-hot bath) I could literally feel the stress melting away (or that could have actually been my skin; I told you I have it too hot). Either way, the oils enveloped me in their warm embrace; any qualms about the value or efficacy of the products instantly dissolved, along with the ache in my neck and throbbing feet.

Hydrating Nourishing Face Oil: a little goes a long way

After the oils had worked their magic and I’d binged on my boxset, I emerged from the bath like a phoenix from the ashes: majestically restored, soothed and ready for my bed. I just had the strength to slather on the face oil – the few drops required means that even this teeny bottle will last for ages – then it’s off to the land of nod to sleep, perchance to dream…of Hollywood hunks and glamour. Hmm, perhaps I shouldn’t have dismissed Danny Devito after all….

Small is beautiful photo credit

You can find out more and purchase Aromatherapy Associates luxurious oils, lotions and potions here. As well as being the perfect cheeky treat for yourself, they would also make a fantastic Mother’s Day gift – you can even get the bottles engraved. To get a 20% discount enter the promo code PB20 at the checkout. The code is valid until the end of April. You’re welcome .

Enjoy!

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Oil Be Back appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

…let’s make lots of money.

Remember that old Pet Shop Boys song? Okay, so I may have replaced “brawn” with Braun, but this is a post about the merits of electrical goods, not catchy old Eighties tunes, so hear me out.

If you don’t remember much from the Eighties, chances are you’re too young to need natty facial fuzz removal devices anyway, so feel free to scroll on by if I’m boring you. If, however, you find yourself absent-mindedly twirling and twizzling your beard like a thoughtful wizard, read on. You need this.

My regular readers will testify that I don’t usually use my blog as a platform for selling or recommending stuff. I leave that to the stunning bambi-eyed babes: bronzed, bikini’d-up and pouting into the camera as they gush about the latest fake tan/juicer/whatever. I’m not knocking them, it’s where the money is, however I generally prefer to use my little corner of the interweb solely for reminiscing, observations, rants and musings. I blog for the love of writing, not to sell shit.

So, as I say, I wouldn’t ordinarily share personal grooming tips on here, but the footy’s on so hopefully all the men are goggle-eyed on the box. If you’re a fella please look away now, there’s no need to trouble your pretty little head with such business. Go on, off ya go….unless the women in your life make Chewbacca look clean-shaven, in which case, send them the link to this post, pronto.

Pssst, girls! Listen up! In the name of the sisterhood I have to share this with you : buy a facial epilator. Get one. Just do it. O.M.G! Oh…em…to the capital gee.

They are totally like sha-mazingggg!!

I won’t go into deets, but let’s just say I was starting to cultivate facial hair that any Shoreditch hipster dude worth his skinny jeans woulda been proud of – ya get me? It was either a Braun epilator….or beard oil. I was in serious danger of turning into a werewolf every time I could sense a full moon was approaching. I was getting the twinges.

You know you’ve got a problem when your fella is worried about you giving him a rash from kissing. One of his nicknames for me is The Bearded Dragon. Say no more.

Hence, I bit the bullet and bought this gadget. It’s called Braun Face 810. Wow! My face hasn’t been this smooth and soft since about five minutes after I was born. Why did it take me forty long years to discover this thing? How could those deceptively smooth-skinned girls smile slyly as they eyed my Poirot ‘tache whilst keeping this a secret? It’s a downy-right cheek! (geddit?). Hence I’m shouting it from the rooftops. My bearded buddies will thanks me, especially the one who’s developed a nervous tic whereby her tongue flicks out snake-style at regular intervals to moisten her bristly moustache (triggering snorty lols from me).

So what is this magical invention I hear you cry? It’s actually nothing new: basically a hand-held battery-powered wand that you run over your face and it just…pulls all the hairs out. Every one. Simples. Sounds painful? Merely a mild tingle. The top lip is slightly eye-watering, granted, but it’s more than worth it for the results. It also comes with a facial cleansing brush head attachment, which I used first:

 

This badboy pulled out enough tufty little hairs to stuff a cushion. If you’re particularly bewhiskered you could probably reupholster your sofa whilst you’re at it. I’m not kidding. I recommend weighing yourself before and after: I reckon I lost a good few pounds of fuzz in the process. My boyfriend even joked that I’ll need to get a new passport now, or risk being whisked aside at the airport. This is not exactly the before and after, but it’s close….

 

 

 

And all for the non-bank-breaking sum of 35 measly squid. I know, right? A no-brainer. I read the reviews and was like “Take my money. Take it.”

 So to all those hirsute honeys, this post is for you. Well all know that hormones play havoc with the old hair sitch, so don’t beat yourself up about bumfluff, get one of these. You can thank me later.

It’s one baaaad mother plucker.

Products from Amazon.co.uk ‹ ›

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post You’ve got the brains, I’ve got the Braun… appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

Okay, so I may know my way around a countour palette and own more cosmetics than Estee Lauder herself, but when it comes to being catwalk-ready from the neck down – forget it!

Now there are some girls who have a body for Baywatch, face for Crimewatch. What’s the use in bursting a blood vessel at the gym if you’ve got a face like a bag o’ spanners? No, get your hair and make-up runway-ready and to hell with the fitness regime. It’s not called a ‘regime’ for nothing. I don’t recall Hitler’s one being a barrel of laughs either. Life’s for living, not pouting into your phone like a constipated duck whilst ‘working out’ for the camera. I can’t work that out.

Seeing as the majority of people only chat to the bit above your chin (or chins, in my  case – I blame constantly looking down at my phone) – why bother slogging your guts out on your glutes, especially if you’ve got a permanent case of resting bitch face. Don’t sweat it – just smile occasionally! I know exercise releases endorphins, but so does biting into a quarter-pounder with cheese.

I wouldn’t say I was a total lard-arse, but fitness model material I certainly ain’t. These days we’re under increasing pressure to pump iron, our newsfeeds clogged up with skinny, tanned superfit bods, their proud owner beaming smugly from your phone as you tuck into your hummous dip….accompanied with a family-sized bag of Doritos. Or should I say DOH-ritos! I must remember to replace those with a carrot next time. Oh well.

Far from springing off the sofa and nipping out for a quick 5k’s, I’m more likely to flip my phone over and reach for the sharing-size Salt and Vinegar Kettle Chips in defiance. My Sainsbury’s delivery dude probably thinks I’ve got 6 kids with all these ‘family fun-packs.’

“Prep Like a Boss!” is The Body Coach’s strapline, gesturing to row upon boring row of sterile Tupperware boxes stuffed with various gut-churning greens. Oh, I prep like a boss alright mate….the boss of a chip shop.

Of course, I don’t want to be a blubbery old bird. I’ve hit the gym….instructor. Well he was a smarmy git anyway….and it WAS an accident (I got a tad over-zealous with my free weights.)

Having a fit younger boyfriend is not without it’s pitfalls either – Andy goes to BodyPump regularly and in a moment of madness I agreed to go to a couple of classes, see what all the fuss was about. Within minutes my eyes were bulging, teeth clenched as I strained to lift the weights above my head. I glanced casually around to check no-one was watching….and realised that everyone else had weights the size of manhole covers on each side, bar bending in the middle, whilst my spindly arms struggled with my piddly 3kg jobbies. The shame!

As I collapsed in a cardiac emergency I vowed to work out in the privacy of my own home in future. I bought a set of dumbells. They’re working. Every time I trip over them they remind me how dumb I am. Andy suggested we take up running. So far the only running I seem to be doing is running out of money before the end of the month.

Then there’s the diet. How anyone can drink those bile-inducing protein shakes is beyond me. I’d rather lick the bottom of a birdcage. Being hangry is no fun for anyone.

If God didn’t want us to eat his cute animals why did he make them so goddamn tasty?

I know vegetarians preach about ‘not eating anything with a face’ but someone should remind them that even potatoes have eyes. How do you know if someone’s a veggie? Oh don’t worry, they’ll fecking tell you!

Too much red meat is bad for you, I get that. It’s not great for the cow, either. I have a weakness for sweet n’ sour spare ribs, but who said they were spare? Not the pig, that’s for sure.

Fruit and veg may be good for you, no-one’s disputing that, but when was the last time you salivated over a salad, eh? Thought not. You’d never walk in at an inopportune moment to find your fella ogling a naked fruit salad on the Lad Bible site, would you now? But stick a big flappy kebab on his Food Porn feed and he’s definitely perking up….

We all know a muffin top is unbecoming on anything other than, well, a muffin, but if you dress well ( ie shoehorned into Spanx in XXS) then at least your dietary misdemeanors can be pretty much concealed. Until, that is, you peel off your layers to reveal what looks like a cheap Iceland sausage bursting out of it’s skin. Then it may be time to reign in the nightly gallon-drum of Chenin Blanc and invest in a padlock for the biscuit tin.

As Kate Moss  famously once  said….

“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.”

She’s obviously never tasted my local Indian’s creamy kormas.

As soon as my jeans start to pinch, I resort to my tried-and-tested exercise regime…I go on a clubbing binge. Nothing snaps that waist into shape and planes inches off those hips faster than a weekend’s raving, dancing furiously to house and techno tunage at any one of London town’s myriad of hip haunts. Eager to keep up with my younger counterparts I dance Duracell-stylee all night long, the only calories passing my lips coming from the odd chewing gum or an energy-boosting vodka Red Bull, sweat pouring down my ruddy face. Sexy.

Come Monday, I may have bags under my eyes, but the ones on my butt have miraculously disappeared. Result!

Obviously being slim is no guarantee of health either. There’s someone I see on my commute with a figure that’d make Elle ‘The Body’ Macpherson green with envy, but then she opens her mouth to reveal a set of Swiss-army teeth: rotten stumps and jagged bits all over the gaff. It’s like a row of bombed-out houses. Yikes!

Whilst I’ve always considered working in a job that involves being on my feet for at least eight hours a day to be a disadvantage, now I credit all the running about after my customers with the fact that I’m not getting mistaken for Gemma Collins just yet. And seeing as I won’t be able to afford to retire until around five years after I die then I should be fine. I’ll probably reach my target weight round about the same time.

And as for the wrinkles appearing round my eyes, well of course Botox has entered my head….but I only have to take one look at Amanda Holden’s expressionless waxwork mug and I decide to leave well alone (for now). I do have a few mates with foreheads as suspiciously smooth as hard-boiled eggs….but if I’ve got the hump I want people to know about it, ya get me?

So there you have it. If you get a buzz out of busting a gut at some hernia-inducing class at the gym then good for you.

Me? I’ll stick to bustin’ moves instead…

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Mind the (Thigh) Gap appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

 In the impressionable early years of my life my biggest role model, as is the case for most young girls, was my mother. During those few short years when she was actually taller than me (only until I was about 6 you understand – she’s tiny!), I would crane my neck upwards to admire her flowing natural blonde locks, flicked Farrah Fawcett-style, her wide blue eyes sporting sky-blue eyeshadow (…well it was the Eighties), tugging on her skirt for constant attention.

I would listen for the sound of the clanking crockery downstairs which indicated she was washing up, then slowly and silently ease open the cream chest-of-drawers to reveal the treasure chest that was her make-up bag.

Checking over my shoulder at regular intervals, I would slide my grubby, chubby four year old mitts into the bag of booty and set to work emulating my heroine – first a generous puff of delicately-scented powder over my face, then a swipe of electric blue mascara, almost gouging my eyeballs out in the process. I cursed my clumsiness as undeveloped motor skills meant the sugar-pink lippy I was carefully striving to apply took on a life of it’s own and careered off-target, ending up somewhere near my left temple.

A quick spritz of her save-it-for-best Chanel no. 5 and my Mini-Mum look was almost complete. I admired my colourful appearance from every angle in her dressing table mirror, moving this way and that…So maybe I did resemble a deranged and dishevelled Barbara Cartland, but I thought I was the epitome of sophistication. Just time to slip my podgy toes into her slingbacks and…..
“WHAT THE….?! STAY STILL! DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!!”

For some reason I couldn’t quite fathom, Mummy wasn’t looking very impressed with my impersonation. Okayyy, so I may have made a tiny mess on the carpet when the lipstick flew out of it’s barrel and the eyeshadow slipped from my clammy grip, but surely she realised that imitation is the greatest form of flattery…?

And so it began.

My loyal and lifelong love affair with make-up.

Mum may have secured her make-up bag tighter than Fort Knox after that little incident, but I always found a way to set those pretty little pots free, Houdini-like in my dogged endeavours to release them from the confines of their vanity case. Once my little sister Karen was old enough to be my accomplice, we were quite the devious pair of beauty-product blaggers.

By the age of ten, I can clearly remember yanking my mum by the hand into The Body Shop to coo over the bath pearls. Now obsolete, in those days these squidgy little pearlised balls of bath oil that would dissolve on contact with hot water were the height of desirability amongst pre-teens up and down the country.

I would display a selection of them proudly on my bedroom flip-lid desk for as long as possible, until such time that they gathered a dusty fur coat; then I would reluctantly use one in my evening bath, soaking in it’s milky scented goodness in the manner of Cleopatra, emerging wrinkle-fingered and fragrant an hour or so later. Well, I had to get my pocket money’s worth, you understand. I would generally select the pink strawberry-flavoured ones with matching soap and mini bottle of Strawberry Body Wash, the synthetic scent of which was heaven to my childish unsophisticated palate. Give me those over a bag of chewy shrimps any day of the week….

As I grew, so did my appetite for all things beauty, and I would hoard my haul greedily, having to find increasingly cunning hiding places for it to avoid it falling into the wrong hands ie those of my sister Karen, who had a bloodhound-like ability to sniff out my stash.

By my mid-teens I had perfected my signature look, having watched my paternal grandmother carefully applying her salmon-pink pressed powder from the compact, a lit cigarette dangling from glossy scarlet lips.

In my head I had the mysterious look of Marlene Dietrich, all red lips and sexy slim cigarettes, but in reality a moody Ronald MacDonald puffing on a B&H was a closer resembance.

I even matched my pillarbox red lipstick to my favourite NafNaf bomber jacket, then immortalised the look by posing for my passport picture in that very same get-up. I lived to regret that particular sartorial slip-up; I spent the next decade willing that passport to expire….

A night out with my schoolmates would be a major event. I spent enough time getting my make-under just right for school, so you can imagine how much time and effort went into a night out.
Hours were spent in front of the my bedroom mirror applying layer upon chalky layer of foundation, concealer and powder in an attempt to cover my imperfections until what looked back at me was less a face and more a sheet of white A4.

All features erased, I’d set about drawing them all back on again, just as a toddler fills in a colouring book – heavy-handedly in a rainbow of colours. Finally ready to hit the bar, fake ID in hand, we’d totter down the high street like fledgling birds of paradise, slightly unsteady on our skyscraper heels, the sickly aroma of Impulse mingling with Diamond White and a few sneakily-smoked Silk Cuts.

There are two types of women in this world: those that believe in a bit of harmless fakery…. and those that don’t. I’d look at those who didn’t wear any cosmetics with a mixture of pity and disdain. Who were these strange creatures who couldn’t be bothered to take pride in their appearance? Did they really look better without it…. or were they just plain lazy?
Cindy Crawford famously commented that even she “doesn’t look like Cindy Crawford first thing in the morning.” 

If a supermodel needs slap to face her adoring public, what hope for the rest of us under the harsh striplights of the tube during the rush-hour?

Later, I’d find out that the feeling was often mutual. Non-believers regarded slap-wearers as slappers: weak, insecure creatures of questionable morals who needed to apply a mask before facing the world. Or they saw it as a feminist issue: why should society not just accept us as we really are? (Erm…because we’re all mingers sans mascara, love, that’s why.)

I still don’t understand the bare-faced cheek of that mentality. Why resemble a ratty grey pigeon when you can be a resplendent parrot?

To me, applying make-up is a ritual that’s worth every minute. Each brush stroke adds another layer of confidence, each sweep of mascara an extra dimension of character to my anaemic blonde features.

Without it I feel naked, exposed, my pink bunny-eyed expression bland and apologetic.

With it I’m fierce, fired-up and ready to take on the world.

I guess it was inevitable that despite A-level grades that saw me accepted into some respected universities, I tossed the offer letters in the bin and accepted a job as a make-up artist for Clinique in Harvey Nicks, much to the bemusement of my family.

Today my love of all things beauty still stands. I run a beauty boutique and go gaga over the latest fragrance or pretty pink packaging.

I understand that beauty runs deeper than a carefully-applied flick of liquid liner, but the indisputable difference it makes to your confidence is not to be sniffed at. Of course there are times when slumping bare-faced on the sofa in your PJs is unashamed bliss, but to venture out into the world ‘sans maquillage?’ No siree, not for me!

I’m not endorsing duck-pouts and scouse brows here; permanent marker is not to be mistaken for permanent make-up, no no no…..but never underestimate the value of a touch of cosmetic camouflage.

photo credit

As I strut down the street in heels and with my make-up applied just so, the words of one of my perfectly-groomed gay friends echo in my head…

“Life’s A Catwalk, Baby!”

photo credit

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Life’s A Catwalk, Baby! appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.