Lying by my bed is a little pile of silky human hair. My boyfriend keeps asking if I can throw it away, as it freaks him out. But I want to remember that Sunday evening when I clawed and wrenched at my head, trying to pull out the temporary hair extensions that had been put in as part of an exciting makeover package. I could also have kept the white sheets, turned a rich shade of orangey brown despite my fake tan promising to “leave no stain after 20 minutes”. Then again, I could have bottled the excitement of the prospect of having my teeth whitened, before learning that what I really needed was £15,000 of cosmetic dentistry — but not to worry, I could get finance for that. As the dentist said, having your teeth beautified “changes people’s lives for ever”.
I hear this claim a lot during my day at 10 Years Younger Live, the popular Channel 4 show come to life for the first time, for commercial gain, at Earls Court Exhibition Centre. We live in an era of makeover madness; we are obsessed by the fairy-tale miracle that a total transformation promises. We are the frogs and we want stylists, surgeons and hairdressers to kiss our inner princesses to life. And we want them to do it really quickly. The makeover show is now a stalwart of television schedules. Over the three days of 10 Years Younger Live, thousands of women tramp up to Earls Court to meet the experts and take part in a live makeover experience. As I walk through the door, there is a roar more akin to a live music gig: one lucky lady’s “reveal” is in progress.
The 10 Years Younger show is but one variation on the familiar television makeover theme. Take one saggy old bag off the street, ask people how old they think they are — cue negative answers — and proceed to remodel them by any means available: new clothes, a nip and a tuck, glow-in-the dark teeth, new hair. Then see if people will judge them significantly younger — cue applause and, hopefully, tears. That’s the recipe, we can’t get enough of it, and it’s having an effect, with 10% of people surveyed in Britain in 2007 claiming that television and magazine makeovers were the main reason they had had or would have cosmetic surgery.
At the Earls Court show there are two distinct groups. First, middle-aged females in couples and gangs, saying things like: “Well, it’s time, I’m in my forties. We’re here to make ourselves look better.” Although it feels cruel to judge this group, many of them have “let themselves go”, as it is described in the women’s weeklies. But judge we must. As one of the well-groomed reps on one of the stands whispers to me: “I don’t know how some women manage to get themselves into that state. You should be working on yourself all the time, not waiting for an overnight miracle.” Not far away, on a stand flagged “Get Your Dream Body”, women stand on a vigorously vibrating exercise machine. It is yours to take home for £300 and, as the rep says, “it’s the easy way to health and fitness”.
Hmmm. Is there such a thing? Everywhere fairy tales are being sold to women hungry for magic and happy endings. Which might explain why the second group in attendance is mothers with their young daughters, two generations of the show’s fans. A little girl, Romana, 8, stands in awe, waiting for the autograph of the show’s resident hairdresser, Andrew Barton. She isn’t here for the botulinum toxin or the £600 La Prairie face cream (it’s got platinum in it, so it must be good). She is here for the magic of seeing an ugly duckling turn into a swan.
Admittedly, I myself am not merely there to observe from a comfortably superior position, but am equally ready to drop my notepad and submit to the promise of a quick fix. I join the queue for my own Earls Court mini-makeover.
I rapidly undergo all the elements that this requires. Temporary hair extensions are woven onto my head, and I have my first fake tan — and my last (that stuff is stinky and it makes you look a queer orangey colour). Then a visit to the facial-massage lady — who very cleverly takes wrinkles out of my face with her fingers and claims to be able to replicate the dewrinkling effects of Botox with regular massage alone. Much as it pains me to do so, I have to turn down free Botox, because I am not a great believer in getting any old Dr Joe on a stand at Earls Court Exhibition Centre to paralyse my facial muscles (even if that doctor has been on the telly).
Perhaps it’s time to start looking at the makeover cult as a female sport; a cheap, fizzy-pop cultural activity, much like ogling fat/thin/haggard/oversurgeried celebs in Heat and Grazia. It’s about as real as Katie and Peter, and as filling and nourishing as a packet of Monster Munch. When I walk out of Earls Court, the photographer says I look “much better”. And I’m sure I do, but the next day I wake up the same person. Only with a little pile of someone else’s hair by my bed.
THE TV SHOWS THAT GOT US HOOKED
Extreme Makeover The big daddy of the television makeover show, Extreme Makeover first aired in America in 2002, following men and women undergoing plastic surgery, exercise regimes and styling overhauls before the “final reveal” in front of friends and family. It was dropped in 2007 after ratings slumped.
The Swan Shamelessly traded on fairy-tale logic: ugly duckling is transformed into beautiful swan. The female contestants competed to enter a “pageant” in the series finale to become “the Swan”. Ratings dropped and this US show was cancelled in 2005.
How to Look Good Naked Popular makeover show fronted by Gok Wan that favours clever styling and “you go, girl” sisterhood over the surgeon’s knife. Gok restyles contestants, then they pose naked in a public place (to prove they love their bodies, duh).
10 Years Younger The UK’s answer to Extreme Makeover has undergone a makeover of its own. With a new smiley presenter, Myleene Klass, at the helm, it now covers two makeovers per show, with one woman taking on natural procedures and the other opting for cosmetic surgery.
Dr 90210 Another US import, this is filmed from the doctor’s angle. Viewers are treated to more consultation and operating theatre footage, which, despite the goriness, offers a more rounded insight into what it means to go under the knife.
Joanna McGarry
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