Smoggie Queen (2): Hairclips and WhatsApp Stickers

[Part 1: Style me like a Smoggie Queen]

The day of the photoshoot dawned hot and sunny. I wasn’t entirely sure what to wear. I assumed I would be whisked away, changed into some fabulous outfit, and transformed the minute I arrived, so I went with my trusty black bootcut leggings and sparkly black top.

I wear a lot of black. I didn’t ever wake up one day and go: Mmm I must buy all black clothes, it just happened. Whenever I have to go shopping — which I hate — I invariably panic and buy something black because it is smart, reliable, and usually looks far better than some of the colours shops seem determined to sell clothes in.

So, I arrived hoping to learn some tips and tricks of the trade that would make me think: Ah, that’s the secret. Perhaps a good, fresh-looking foundation that would make my skin glow, a clever way to dress my petite five-foot frame in colours other than black (in a world of fashion apparently designed for six-foot women), or a low-maintenance regime to let my grey curls look polished and intentional.

I was picked up in a car at lunchtime, which was a little surprising as I had understood that I would spend the day there. Looking back, I realise that a lot of my uncertainty came from not knowing how the day was supposed to work, even though we had had lots of emails and an online meeting. I hate not having a plan and found myself asking questions like: Should I eat lunch before I go? What should I do all morning? Why don’t I just get the tube, since it is so close, and explore that part of town beforehand?

When I finally arrived, I was amazed by the sheer organisation of the makeover day: the photographers, stylists, hair and makeup artists, and the assistant who seemed to be coordinating everything. He turned out to be a young man, and I had a brief moment of horror when I remembered I had sent him my bra size, having assumed from his name that he was a woman.

Turns out there were two photoshoots: Good Housekeeping in the morning and then Prima in the afternoon, and as my surname begins with S, I was last of the last.

This meant that, from the moment I arrived, I felt like I was playing catch-up. The photoshoots were already underway, so I stood around watching. At one point, a couple of people came over and asked me if I was the stylist. I was quite flattered. I said: No, I am the talent, it said so on the sheet, complete with info to stalk me.

An email with attached pdf sheet had circulated prior to the day with everyone’s contact details — email addresses and phone numbers — which may well have been normal procedure, but I was surprised that my explicit consent had not been checked first. I suppose I live in a world of IT data security and privacy concerns, whereas here people need to be easily reachable.

The two lovely people I would be sharing the cover with were already in hair and makeup, so while I was waiting around, I went to get a reassuring cup of coffee. The coffee was almost beside the point; it was an excuse to walk around, do something, and feel less like I was simply waiting to be summoned. Sadly, the coffee machines were broken, but whilst I was standing awkwardly about having a sad glass of water, I got to talk to the editor-in-chief, who was surprised to hear that I did AI. I was just about to say some stuff, when…

Finally, they called me over and spent ages combing my hair straight, only to tong it back into curls. I asked if I could have big fake eyelashes and a ton of slap — after all, if I was going to be transformed into a cover star, I wanted the full experience. But then Gok, the stylist, was leaving, so we needed to do our “social shoot” and I had to go immediately.

Now, my youngest daughter has always had an irrational fear that if I wasn’t careful I could get turned into a WhatsApp sticker, which makes me laugh. But on this day, there I was: standing with Shirley Temple ringlets, unhinged clips and no make-up — not even a bit of foundation to smooth my wrinkles — next to everyone else who was already styled, like I had chosen to look like that.

Then we all had to talk about why we were there. My two cover companions went first: Cancer. New ideas. Two things I had written on my winning entry form, so when it came to me, I thought I should say something different: I know I’ll say fun!  (WTAF, I was obviously stressed. I never think things like that, let alone say them.)

We went back over to the styling station while they finished my hair and did my nails, and then lunch arrived: chicken in a really nice green sauce with rice. Tasty!

I was halfway through eating when I had to stop and go for an interview for copy for the article itself. When I got back, my lunch had disappeared. But it was time for make-up. Apparently, I couldn’t have fake eyelashes because they look fake, but I could have plenty of eyeliner. So that was something.

The day was fast drawing to a close. The Good Housekeeping gang had finished and were going home, and the hair and make-up team started worrying that I had somehow been forgotten. They kept going over to check what was happening, which was genuinely kind of them, but it made me feel slightly awkward and stressed, as if I was being a diva, demanding attention.

And, then after checking for the millionth time if someone had fixed the coffee machine and instead drinking more water, finally it was my turn in the cupboard, where the stylist said:

Here are the clothes, Gok chose for you.

OH. MY. GOD.

At five feet tall, my entire life has been about trying to fit into clothes designed for people twice my height. Trousers trail on the floor, sleeves swallow my hands, and jackets seem determined to turn me into a child borrowing an adult’s wardrobe. This day was no different. Gok had apparently picked out dresses that made me look – the only word for it is:

Kerdumpf.

The long pink-and-brown maxi dress, complete with a large elasticated waistband, made me look like a sack of spuds tied in the middle.

Now, I am not a difficult woman. I am usually very willing to embrace other people’s ideas, even when they are outside my comfort zone. But this time, I simply said: “No.”.

So, this lovely stylist and I spent a good 45 minutes with me standing in my underwear, clutching my granny knickers for comfort (I love my big knickers — no VPL for me. Not when they go right up to my armpits.) going:

No, no, no.

We tried jeans with turn-ups, which were so long and turned up that they came almost to my knee. I particularly remember those because, at the time, there was a constant stream of people coming in and out, giving their opinions, and leaving the door wide open — as if I wasn’t a real person standing there in my knickers!

I was disappointed and remember thinking:

JEANS!!

Jeans aren’t a makeover.

And it was then I asked if I could be dressed like the stylish Good Housekeeping gang. That was a no, they were in stylish muted tones and we were – well, not.

Finally, after quite the tussle, driven by my desperation to not become a WhatsApp sticker, and with the clock ticking and the clothes running out, we managed to find two outfits.

In one, I am dressed like patio furniture: an extra-large tailored beige linen jacket that appeared to have been made for someone several feet taller and a fade to beige dress. To be fair, the belt, earrings and sandals were lovely.

And then came the second outfit: another big, long, many-many-many-coloured dress, which on any other day I wouldn’t even have considered trying on — not in a million years. Especially not with a sailor collar, a weird tie-thing over my boobs, and an elasticated waist pulled so high it sat right underneath them, flattering me in all the wrong places.

Luckily, the stylist saved the day with a thick woven brown leather belt, which I loved (though we both agreed it would have gone better if it was black). Suddenly, I looked less like I was heading to a garden party where toddlers would be finger-painting and I had specifically chosen my outfit just in case they decided to use me as a canvas — and more like I was about to start lifting super-heavy weights and become some kind of bad-ass weightlifter.

Then it was time for the photoshoot.

Whilst my lovely companions else looked relaxed and happy, I felt incredibly awkward, and I think it shows in the pics I look stiff and unnatural – even my curls look like they’re trying too hard.

Then, it was over.

All that effort, all those lovely people giving their all, and the actual photoshoot itself lasted only a couple of minutes. I couldn’t believe it.

And, back into the cupboard, we went.

As we got changed, we talked about our day and both Gladys and Bev, my Prima companions said, that they enjoyed it and would definitely do it again. I didn’t think it was for me and probably wouldn’t want to repeat the experience. The whole process had left me feeling like the last piece of meat in the butcher’s shop — being prodded, arranged, and presented for display.

As it turned out, I was in another photoshoot the following November. It’s official I don’t enjoy being photographed, even when I’m wearing my own clothes with no one prodding me.

Gladys, who occasionally appears on Good Morning as a model, was clearly much more at home in that world. Bev, sadly, has since died, which makes me even more grateful that we got to share the day.

We were given goodie bags at the end. I opened mine excitedly and found some lovely little treats: nail varnish, lipstick, perfume, the magazine, and dry shampoo — which I really like. It felt like a small piece of glamour to take home.

The tote bag also contained interesting skincare products, including salicylic acid, which I’ve only known about in the context of removing verrucas and warts. Apparently, it is meant to be applied to your arms to smooth out little bumps and imperfections. I gave it away. My arms and I decided we were happy to remain as we were.

The magazine hit the stands at the end of July and, we received our very own version through the post.

The final reveal was that we weren’t quite cover stars after all. We appeared on a special wraparound cover for the subscriber edition only, while the actual cover stars for the stands were, as usual, famous people — the faces that already belonged there. On top of which social media reels had been created using models wearing our clothes, the familiar faces of magazine culture.

In the magazine, there’s the Verdict. Gok on Ruth:

Both of Ruth’s dresses were styles she wouldn’t have tried before which was what the shoot was all about – inspiring confidence with something new. I love how playful she felt in the printed dress while her cover look brought some grown up glamour to the day ….

And I can see his logic. The outfits were definitely different from anything I would normally choose — and I did give them a chance. But perhaps that was the thing I learned: trying something new is one thing; being dressed as someone else is another. In this case, I felt like I disappeared underneath someone else’s version of what a middle-aged makeover should look like.

I had hoped someone with expertise would show me something about myself that I hadn’t yet seen — some secret to looking and feeling like the best version of me. I was open to it. I wanted to learn. I wanted a bit of magic. Perhaps that is the thing with transformation: nobody else can tell you who you are. They can offer ideas, but ultimately you have to recognise yourself and be comfy in the outfit.

Thankfully though, to my knowledge, I am still not a WhatsApp sticker.

All in all, it was quite the day. I loved getting a peek behind the scenes and appreciated all the work it takes to make a photoshoot.

I’m still working on learning those secret tips for glowing skin, clever petite styling tricks, and luxurious curls — but until I discover them, I have AI.

AI can happily transform me into a Smoggie Queen, as demonstrated by Drag Ruth at the top of this blog.

Now that would make a marvellous WhatsApp sticker!

*** In memory of Bev, who was such fun, and who, I’m sure, would have loved the idea of us dressing up as glamorous drag queens. ***

[Part 3: Smoggie Queen (3): Stereotypes, Representation, and Lossy Compression in old and GenAI]