Paint It Black

Creative expression is very much in vogue and therefore encouraged here at Axis Towers. Having grown up in a somewhat repressive and restrictive environment, where mess and dirt were the enemy and any kind of stepping out of line was viewed with disproportionate disgust, I have renounced the creed of clean and decided not to punish for minor misdemeanours such as treading an entire box of crayons into the carpet or painting your little brother's face blue with a permanent marker. At times, though, I struggle to keep the long view in mind; that being, the Axis need to use all media to fully realise their potential, sometimes the short view (what-the-bloody-hell-have-you-done-to-my-furniture/walls/ceiling) wins out. And the look of sheer greedy glee when they spy an unopened box of chunky, fat crayons, powdery chalks or perfectly pointy pencils will raise a smile in most, so I guess it's worth it.

It's a common reaction, and one I've recently begun to display with regard to make-up. I made it through the best part of 30 years with the barest minimum of slap, but now that I'm being run ragged daily by the vicissitudes of life, a bit of warpaint seems a reasonable and sensible step. Quite why I think that some glorified poster paint can hide the sunken eyes, puffy cheeks and disturbingly shapeshifting jaw, I do not know, but I'm happy to attempt to fool myself, and everyone else. It started when I had a few hours to kill before a wedding; I wandered into a Mac stand in Glasgow and was immediately confronted with a tiny South African goth who looked almost exactly like a fairy, gossamer wings 'n' all. Staring at the different but unidentifiable pigments, utterly confused, I asked her for foundation. 'What sort?' '...' She sighed in exasperation. 'If you want me to help you, you have to tell me what you want.' I blinked at her, mildly, like a cow in a reverie whilst chewing its cud. She tutted and sighed again. 'OK. Do you want dewy? My skin is dewy. Do you want it to look like this?' I nodded, dumbly, and she pulled out a brush and began dabbing away with something wet and a bit over-brown that made me look like I'd just been swimming in a chocolate fountain. Somehow I plucked up the courage to inform her that I was a bit old for the wet-look. We settled on something that worked pretty well, I handed over a week's worth of lunch money, and that, I thought, would be that for another year.

However...for some reason, I've become completely infatuated with it. The little bottles, tubes and pots; the voluptuousness of a new kohl pencil; the velvet softness of a wet powder eyeshadow; the fact that my brown skin carries purple as a blusher much better than as an eye colour. I wander round the cosmetics stands of high-street chemists, stroking eye crayons, oohing and aahing at nail paint, sampling testers of different primers. All at once, the colours and textures calm and comfort, excite and embolden. I keep thinking of new ways to paint myself, to warp the bare foundation of what is there and make it into something prettier, more symmetrical, with the beholder's gaze drawn to the points I want it to be drawn to. Control.

'Ooooooooh,' said the Axis when, having broken through the complex set of biometric security controls with which I guard my bedroom, they espied the pretty little collection of £1.29 tiny pots, tubes and bottles. 'NO,' I said, as fiercely and with as much intent as I could. They reached upwards eagerly, feeling at the little glittery tubs much in the same way as I did. 'Mum, what is it?' I tried to explain. 'Well, it's like paint, but for Mummy.' The Pie looked confused. 'Are you going to turn blue?' 'No, son. It's...well. It's to make my eyes sparkle, and...and...to make me look pretty.' I pick up a brush. 'Look. This helps my eyes. I look rough today.' The Pie is shaking his head, blinking his ridiculously beautiful and lush long black eyelashes, coveted by several of my female friends. 'No, Mum. You don't.' How touching. 'You always look the same Mum. I know, 'cos I've been with you for a long time now, five years, and you always have looked the same.' Er... 'Thanks, Pieface! I think...'. Bless him.

Later comes the backlash. An advert for the shampoo I use comes on, featuring a bird with long, glossy hair flicking it around for no particular reason. The Axis are entranced. Pie turns to me quizzically. 'Mum. Why don't you buy stuff like that?' Oh, I do son. That's the one I buy. Instantly, I realise I should never have responded, as the vile child rejoins thus, predictably: 'Why doesn't your hair look like that then?' Grrrr...well. Because you have clean uniform every day and don't eat McDonalds for your tea, amongst other things, my Piefaced Child. And I wouldn't have it any other way, but at some point I'm going to have to sort it out, because...well.

Because I'm going on a date, that's why. Horrors.