Now I am not exactly what you might call an ardent feminist. If a man wanted to hold a door open for me, I would find it infinitely preferable to just having it slammed in my face. It's just manners I think, and basic common sense.
Or, better still, if on a Central Line train at rush hour, (being squashed like the contents of my underwear drawer), a man offered me a seat, would I be offended? Would I hell? I'd be in that seat quicker than a fly on fresh shit.
However, I think I may have gone to bed last night in 2017 and woken up this morning in 1952. I hope it was a bad dream. After all, what other explanation could there possibly be? This morning I witnessed something utterly shocking. It made me stop in my tracks for quite a long moment I can tell you. In fact, in spite of my desperate urge to look away, I found I was uncontrollably drawn the spectacle in front of my eyes. For there, in the window of a, let's call it a 'beauty parlour', since that is what it was, sat a small, wooden sign. So small in fact that one could almost miss it.
At this point I should warn you to either take a seat or have a stiff drink depending on your health and your current demeanour. Or maybe don't, for all I know you might think I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. And perhaps I am. Although ...
The words on the sign said this, 'Your husband phoned to say ... you can spend as much as you like'
Now maybe it's just me, and since turning fifty I've completely mislaid my sense of humour, but I found this completely offensive. And I haven't even begun the menopause yet. On so many levels, it's hard to know where to begin, especially since I am still hyper-ventilating and this is perhaps affecting my stream of thoughts.
Am I ranting?
The first and most glaringly obvious issue was the implication that not only do you have a husband, but it is he who is paying for you to go to the 'Beauty Parlour', and not in a 'here's a gift voucher for your birthday' kind of way, but more of a, 'I'm giving you permission' way . For me at least it conjures up an image of a 1950's housewife, spending her mornings in her pinny, skipping around the house with her feather duster, no doubt wearing the high heels and pretty frock her husband bought her, her afternoons in the beauty parlour (to make herself look lovely for her man), after which a quick trip to the shops to buy something tasty for dinner so that when her poor exhausted hubby strides through the door at six on the dot after a hard day at work, his scotch and slippers are waiting in the parlour, while she puts on her lipstick, and makes sure her hair is just so, before serving dinner at six fifteen on the dot, just when Reginald, (or whatever her 1950's husband is called) likes it.
Don't be late, Doris, you know there'll be hell to pay if you are!
The sign certainly did not suggest, 'Hey woman with your own money who doesn't need a man to give you permission to have a facial, or you don't need a man in order to feel the need to have your wayward hairs excruciatingly waxed to oblivion', step into our beauty parlour which is owned by a woman and run by women so come join the sisterhood now. Of course I do realise the sign did not specify women, just husbands, which was my very own interpretation. Of course men can have husbands too, but I doubt very much they'll be queuing up at the door any time soon. I might be wrong. But I expect I'm right. I usually am. Being a woman ...
Perhaps I am being silly.
I'm afraid there's more.
I saw an advert on Twitter for sanitary towels this afternoon. The manufacturer has decided to go all politically correct and show how super absorbent they are by showing red liquid dripping into the towel instead of blue. Really???! Blue. But now, in a radical move, they're showing red because that's what colour periods are. Who knew ...
Well me actually. AND ALL THE WOMEN IN ALL THE WORLD. Yes, we know what colour periods are, thank you very much. We do not necessarily need to see an advert showing us what colour they are. Trust me, it will not make me want to buy your product. Quite the opposite in fact. The truth is, if you want me to buy your sanitary towels, save yourself the money you spend on these ridiculous and quite yucky ad campaigns, and give me a free bar of Green and Blacks with every purchase. Or a bottle of Havana Rum. Or both if I buy the multipack. Trust me, you won't be able to sell them quick enough. You don't have to thank me. Just pay me. And then I too, can go to the beauty parlour and spend as much as I like! Sorry, must dash now, Reginald will be home any minute.
Or, better still, if on a Central Line train at rush hour, (being squashed like the contents of my underwear drawer), a man offered me a seat, would I be offended? Would I hell? I'd be in that seat quicker than a fly on fresh shit.
However, I think I may have gone to bed last night in 2017 and woken up this morning in 1952. I hope it was a bad dream. After all, what other explanation could there possibly be? This morning I witnessed something utterly shocking. It made me stop in my tracks for quite a long moment I can tell you. In fact, in spite of my desperate urge to look away, I found I was uncontrollably drawn the spectacle in front of my eyes. For there, in the window of a, let's call it a 'beauty parlour', since that is what it was, sat a small, wooden sign. So small in fact that one could almost miss it.
At this point I should warn you to either take a seat or have a stiff drink depending on your health and your current demeanour. Or maybe don't, for all I know you might think I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. And perhaps I am. Although ...
The words on the sign said this, 'Your husband phoned to say ... you can spend as much as you like'
Now maybe it's just me, and since turning fifty I've completely mislaid my sense of humour, but I found this completely offensive. And I haven't even begun the menopause yet. On so many levels, it's hard to know where to begin, especially since I am still hyper-ventilating and this is perhaps affecting my stream of thoughts.
Am I ranting?
The first and most glaringly obvious issue was the implication that not only do you have a husband, but it is he who is paying for you to go to the 'Beauty Parlour', and not in a 'here's a gift voucher for your birthday' kind of way, but more of a, 'I'm giving you permission' way . For me at least it conjures up an image of a 1950's housewife, spending her mornings in her pinny, skipping around the house with her feather duster, no doubt wearing the high heels and pretty frock her husband bought her, her afternoons in the beauty parlour (to make herself look lovely for her man), after which a quick trip to the shops to buy something tasty for dinner so that when her poor exhausted hubby strides through the door at six on the dot after a hard day at work, his scotch and slippers are waiting in the parlour, while she puts on her lipstick, and makes sure her hair is just so, before serving dinner at six fifteen on the dot, just when Reginald, (or whatever her 1950's husband is called) likes it.
Don't be late, Doris, you know there'll be hell to pay if you are!
The sign certainly did not suggest, 'Hey woman with your own money who doesn't need a man to give you permission to have a facial, or you don't need a man in order to feel the need to have your wayward hairs excruciatingly waxed to oblivion', step into our beauty parlour which is owned by a woman and run by women so come join the sisterhood now. Of course I do realise the sign did not specify women, just husbands, which was my very own interpretation. Of course men can have husbands too, but I doubt very much they'll be queuing up at the door any time soon. I might be wrong. But I expect I'm right. I usually am. Being a woman ...
Perhaps I am being silly.
I'm afraid there's more.
I saw an advert on Twitter for sanitary towels this afternoon. The manufacturer has decided to go all politically correct and show how super absorbent they are by showing red liquid dripping into the towel instead of blue. Really???! Blue. But now, in a radical move, they're showing red because that's what colour periods are. Who knew ...
Well me actually. AND ALL THE WOMEN IN ALL THE WORLD. Yes, we know what colour periods are, thank you very much. We do not necessarily need to see an advert showing us what colour they are. Trust me, it will not make me want to buy your product. Quite the opposite in fact. The truth is, if you want me to buy your sanitary towels, save yourself the money you spend on these ridiculous and quite yucky ad campaigns, and give me a free bar of Green and Blacks with every purchase. Or a bottle of Havana Rum. Or both if I buy the multipack. Trust me, you won't be able to sell them quick enough. You don't have to thank me. Just pay me. And then I too, can go to the beauty parlour and spend as much as I like! Sorry, must dash now, Reginald will be home any minute.
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