LOVE IS NOT SO BLIND

My flatmate (the Actress) casually confessed to me over dinner that she had been illegally stalking a client whilst killing time working for a recruitment firm. I not-so-casually reminded her that such activities could see her red-faced and slapped with an injunction.

It transpired that a chance glance at his CV led her to believe he was The One. Snowboarder, check. Globetrotter, check. Jobless, check. The Actress saw a free-spirit, I saw a commitment-phobe terminally incapable of holding down a job. This did not bode well.

After much outrageous telephonic flirting, the pair arranged to meet for a drink, which as you can only imagine, opened up a whole can of worms. Where to go? Somewhere local, vibrant enough to hide any awkward silences but not wall-to-wall with pretentious fashion wankers that would inevitably have him paying more attention to Legs Eleven in her oil-slick get-up a table away. Easier said than done in Hackney. Conversation? Nightmare ex-boyfriends and any annoying but strangely satisfying habits are strictly off limits. Criminal records are also best kept under wraps at this point. I was especially strict with the Actress on this subject as her favourite topic involves happily reeling off all of the different places where she has been violently sick from booze. And there are many. Once I had managed to convince her that this was not actually as funny out loud as it was in her head, we decided to tackle the elephant in the room. Apparel. I poured us a brandy each and we got down to business.

My style suggestions of a sixties ingenue, part Francis Kray pre-suicide attempts/ part Jane Asher in her Paul McCartney heyday, were scoffed at with a mixture of bemusement and pity. The Actress finally met me somewhere in the middle with some Mod knitwear and a pair of solidly made brogues. As she skipped off into the night like a modern-day-Cinders-on-the-sauce, I got to thinking about acceptable first-date attire.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that dates – particularly those of the blind variety – are a sartorial minefield. Meeting a potential love interest in an intimate setting for the first time can throw even the best of girls ever so slightly off kilter, but gal has got to stay true to her fashion credentials. If day-glo headbands and wasp-waisted trophy jackets are your thing then there is no point living a lie for a couple of hours in pastel twinsets and nana-denier tights for the sake of pleasing a stranger. Months down the line he’ll have fallen in love with a Vera Lynn type and all the while you were secretly Debbie Harry, damnit. That said, a little goes a long way and I find piecemeal wardrobe introductions work like a charm. I refer to this as the Big Tease-y.

Big Tease-y rule no 1:
Fashion followers as a whole tend to divide into two camps: those who under-dress and those who over-dress. I always find myself veering towards the latter. But just because I wouldn’t give a second thought to Sunday supermarket sprees in mink and a matching tiara does not make it first date fashion fodder. Head for the middle ground in an outfit that is one notch up from your everyday skip-to-the shops attire. I, for one, look to Mia Farrow circa Rosemary’s Baby for failsafe first-date dressing. Thigh-grazingly short babydolls with a super-sweet floral pattern and peter-pan collar to keep me just the right side of slutty.

Big Tease-y rule no. 2:
Fingers crossed you make it past the polite hour mark without having to suppress an urge to flee the scene and throw yourself into the path of the nearest moving car. If you have decided your date is not of the weirdo variety, then you may well wish to up sticks to another venue together (I am not talking about his house). A pub, a club, a late-night lock-in at your local Tesco – we live in exciting times and your choice of footwear has got to prepare you for every eventuality. Personally, trainers bring me out in hives but if heels repulse you then show willing in some no-nonsense loafers or bejewelled flats. Mid-heeled Mary-Janes will always stand you in good stead.

Big Tease-y rule no 3:
Hair and make-up can make or break a budding romance and many-a-girl has overdone it in the slap-stakes. This is not a Miss World pageant so leave the body glitter where you found it, but for heaven’s sake meet beauty half way and remember to run a comb through your hair. If you’re a vintage vixen who worships the ground Bettie Page sauntered on then by all means embrace a victory roll or two with gusto. Best to leave the fetish footwear for the second or third date though, or I doubt there’ll be one.

When in doubt, I find that comparing yourself to your favourite tipple helps tremendously. As a gin and tonic lady, I’ve come to realise that first dates generally require pacing myself with one part gin, two parts tonic. In fashion stakes, that translates as a watered down wardrobe. Yes to leopard print coat – no to Myra Hindley hair. It’s all in the measurements. Second date, we’re talking doubles. If you’ve made it to the third, you can hit him with the hard stuff.

But what became of Hot CV Boy? Half an hour after her leaving the house I received a phone call from the Actress. Something was wrong.
The conversation was short, flat and to the point: “I’m on my way home now. He’s wearing blue tinted glasses.”

JUST BROWSING

I have a confession.
I've developed a rather unhealthy relationship with my eyebrow pencil.
I don’t really know how it happened but things seem to have gotten out of hand and the truth of the matter is, I just can’t get enough of my Boots No 7 precision brow pencil in Blonde.
At first my brows loved me for it. They really perked up and couldn’t quite believe I’d noticed them, let alone lavished an ever-increasing amount of quality time on them in the mornings. But now things are turning nasty. My brows don’t talk – they shout. Abuse. At innocent passers-by mostly. They grew in confidence winking at handsome bar-folk but now they hurl obscenities like a tanked-up good-time-girl who doesn’t know when it’s time to go home. And the worst of it is, I can’t even remember the last time my brows and my tweezers had a conversation. Dietrich must be turning in her grave.
I’m considering a trial separation – hell, a Witness Protection programme if I have to.
All I can say is: Carine Roitfeld, I hope you’re happy now.