On beauty

Thandie Newton - the first time I realised that one did not need to possess blue eyes, blonde hair and pale skin to be considered physically lovely

I still remember the silly things I did in my quest for beauty, as prescribed by Cleo or Womans Weekly - mayonnaise in the hair for shine (stench, mess, Mother yelling Stop wasting my mayo), sunbathing on the balcony (severe sunburn), egg white on the face (stench). Pre-beauty magazines, I'd greatly envied Michelle Oh's toothy smile and her dimples and spent many afternoons with my pinky nails dug deep into my 8 year old cheeks (pain, futility). At 15, greatly despaired by my uncomplementary nose, I almost agreed to a friend selling his violin to fund a new one. I plastered my face with a variety of masks and creams, certain that someday I would find one which would peel off to reveal large, deep set eyes, a tiny nose and clear, rosy complexion. I got around the make up ban at school with tinted lip balm and cheek pinching. At some point, I counted 8 different types of shampoos on the edge of the bathtub, each only partially used, soon to be thrown away. I fantasised about growing another 7 inches taller, losing another few kilos and perfect shiny, waist length hair. I imagined a day when the pores on my pimple prone skin would vanish, as would the greasy shine.

My self esteem was not helped by the fact that I had impossibly good looking friends; our adolescent conversations involved reassuring each other that we were not fat, pretty and that of course, our crushes would eventually realise we were The One(s), a la He's Just Not That Into You. Alas, I now live with a man who dutifully calls it as it is. On the bright side, I know the bi-annual compliments offered are sincere.

Last weekend, I went to the Beergarden with YM and some friends. Having never really gotten into the whole clubbing scene, I enjoy these annual outings which often do nothing but reassure me of what I'm not missing. Since YM had gotten us free Nandos (a woeful reminder of my declining tolerance for spicy food) for dinner, I felt obliged to buy the drinks. The club was packed full of drunken, hormonal youth moving to the thumping beat.

As I patiently awaited the bar tender's ministrations, I observed a chubby man trying to get my attention.

"I'm sorry?" I yelled across the counter.

"...!" The (surprisingly decent) live band drowned out his words.

"What?"

"I said, you're f-ing hot!"

"Oh, thank you!" I looked at his much better-looking friend, who stood between us.

"You're gorgeous!" He seconded, either for moral support, or out of inebriation.

Maybe the mayonnaise helped after all.