Mine, All Mine

MAC Lipstick

Natalie Meehan will give you her last Rolo and the shirt off her back. But touch her night cream and she will end you

 

The famous proverb goes ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman whose housemate has used up the last of her John Frieda Sheer Blonde despite actually being a brunette FFS.’ Or something along those lines, anyway.

 

Let me get something straight. I will share with you my Haribo, I will share clothes, I will lend you my beloved dog-eared copy of The Bell Jar even though I know you’ll probably never give it back. I’d probably give you some of my own eggs if you wanted them. I’ve probably got enough.

 

I’m a sharing kind of person. That said, I will never, ever be OK with sharing my beauty products. EVER. You can prise my YSL mascara from my cold, dead hands. I don’t want your eye germs, thank you.

 

I drop some serious cash on my beauty arsenal. I don’t buy crap. I do my research; I spend many an hour trawling websites for reviews so that my hard earned cash doesn’t go to waste. A few years ago when I was living hand-to-mouth (or my first-world version, anyway), my wages regularly fell in into the till of Boots rather than being exchanged for food. I regret nothing.

 

I may have been eating a warmed up part-baked baguette for dinner followed by a cold one for pudding, but I looked SUPERFLY as I did it. I had the best of the best, and I was proud. My section of the bathroom cabinet was overflowing with a mélange of high-end lotions and potions, while my housemate’s side comprised of a rusty Gillette and a dust covered bottle of Alberto Balsam. Alarm bells should have rung from the off.

 

When bitches be using your Kerastase conditioner to SHAVE THEIR LEGS WITH, bitches gotta problem. It turned out this particular housemate also liked to borrow my already worn knickers rather than taking her washing to the laundrette. As I said, ALARM BELLS SHOULD HAVE RUNG. Trust your judgement, people.

 

Similarly, my boyfriend and I only really argue about three things. We argue about food a lot. What we’re going to eat, when we’re going to eat it, how we’re going to eat it – you get the picture. We also argue about the merits of the bus versus walking, and him poking his grubby man fingers into my pots of expensive moisturiser and leaving the lid off like a bloody animal. I despair. No matter how many times I scream like a banshee after walking into the bathroom to find him slathering my £26 Bumble and Bumble leave-in conditioner ON TO HIS PUBES, he will never learn. “It just smells really nice!” is not a defence that will hold up in court. No jury in the land would acquit.

 

A woman’s bathroom cabinet is her own private kingdom. Sometimes a woman needs a little something sacred in her life. Something that is just hers and hers alone. If mine is my beloved products, is that so bad? On second thoughts, I’d like to add the contents of my laundry basket to the list. If you’re wearing my dirty knickers, God only knows what you’re doing with my lipstick.

 

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