As she optimistically peered in the bathroom mirror that morning Sandra soon realised that the stuff hadn’t worked. So the girl had lied to her. The girl behind the cosmetics counter who had persuaded her to buy an overpriced tub of designer gunk and rub it in before bedtime. But now, the morning after, Sandra’s first wrinkle was still there. This product will take ten years off you, the girl had said. No it won’t, Sandra thought bitterly, it’ll take ten effing quid off me and walk away laughing, counting the cash. So much for added rejuvenox and essence of jojoba and new improved Restorecticol X, whatever the hell that was supposed to be. She looked at the little pot with contempt, I’ll give her Laboratoire effing Garnier she thought. What did that cow know anyway, standing there in her trim white tunic, looking stunning and untouchable, making any woman over thirty feel fat, dowdy and inferior, and most under thirty for that matter. Sure she was pretty but her make-up was the unnatural colour of dark oak woodstain rather than the healthy Mediterranean glow it was presumably meant to be. Sandra gazed at her face in the mirror and mulled over the options facing her now:

Borrow her mother’s wedding hat to cast a deep shadow over her face.
Wear a veil.
Skulk in back alleyways.
A combination of the above.
Enter a nunnery.
Buy the 25 quid pot of gunk instead.
Bollocks to it and take in stray cats.


She stretched her facial muscles first one way then the other, trying to make the wrinkle disappear, eventually settling on a wide-eyed, gurning yawn of astonishment. There – hah- it had gone. But that presented her with two further problems – she was not sure how long she could hold that expression and, even if she could, it may have serious implications for her social life. Perhaps if she could just pulled that expression 20 times a day – not at work, of course or on the bus – unless it was to scare off those irritating schoolkids, then her skin may tighten, her self-esteem improve and her youthful bloom and vitality return.

Although by wearing the hat and the veil as well she could carry the it out at will. And apart from a sudden embarrassing gust of wind she could exercise her face all day long in comparative secrecy. She would remove the hat to go out to parties of course but then what if her face, as her mother had often warned her as a child, set like that? - when the wind changed. She would have to get a job in a circus, the prime exhibit – Elephant Woman. But maybe there could be books, films and chat shows in it – she could become a national celebrity. Or is there a law against that sort of thing these days? There must be a law to protect elephants and freaks and 34 year olds. She wasn’t entirely sure she fancied a life of shuffling through station concourses pursued by bothersome urchins anyway.

She picked up the little pot. Could she take it back? she wondered. Do they refund your money once you’ve dipped your fingers in the cream? She could smooth it over with the butter knife and say it was all a mistake – or better still, say it was for friend who has now sadly died before she got to rub it in and see its magical effects. I bet it would have been great, she would say sorrowfully, if only. But then she could imagine the girl’s patronising fake smile as she sent her on her way with a devastating put down. The cow. Yeah, you try it Barbie face, I’ll trash your poncey cosmetics counter and make you eat this stuff – on a doughnut.

Wait a minute though, she thought, studying the label - its got glaxobenzitrol in it too – and nourishing rectitudivan. I’ve read about that stuff and seen it on an advert. That one with that woman who said she was 59 but looked no more than 45-ish. They filmed her in soft focus of course but still - it hasn’t done her any harm. Perhaps if I just try again tonight or for a few more days perhaps….