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And that looking down at your phone will cause turkey-throat wobble? They wailed at the fact Delevingne is far too young to be fronting an anti-ageing brand. The beauty industry wants you to start splurging early.
If you leave it too late, the damage will have been done.
I allowed a woman at Harrods to inject my lips with collagen. The wake-up call that made me stop spending so much on skincare came when I had an extremely painful facelift and eye bag removal a few years ago. No cream will erase Captain Pugwash tramlines, or lift cheeks sunken by betrayal.
The pain of a needle in your lips is, I imagine, tantamount to giving birth, but with no child support to dull the indignity. When I asked the surgeon what skincare regime I should embark upon post-surgery, he actually laughed. Women use expensive unguents to reassure ourselves we are doing something.
Extreme cases of double-entendre interpretation in-story are Freud Was Right.
Sometimes lampshaded with a wink, a nudge, and/or "if you know what I mean".
If someone makes a perfectly innocent statement that others interpret as a Double Entendre anyway, it becomes an Un Entendre.
Don’t laugh – it’s bad for wrinkles – but last week Cara Delevingne was announced as the face of Dior’s anti-ageing skincare brand, Capture Youth. I don’t have Delevingne’s caterpillar eyebrows (I’m trying; I paint on nightly a serum called M2 Beauté, £135, which, in the world of female beauty, is what Monty Don’s leaf mould is to gardening) but like Cara I am a ‘committed woman’.
I loved the fact that in its press release on Instagram, Dior noted that Delevingne is a ‘revolutionary top model, committed woman and rising actress’.
Dear God, once you’ve paid for this stuff I imagine the stress from the credit-card bill will make you look as old as the hills. ’Like most women, I have long been seduced by the promises of beauty brands.
Its Anti-Aging Concentrate is £319; its little vials of Sisley Elixir, meant to be applied after childbirth, a house fire or divorce, £335. At school, my nails were painted in Mary Quant’s Moss, much to my gym mistress’s horror.