WAG [wag]
- acronym, noun. (wives and girlfriends)
There's a few things that you should know about reformed WAG-dom. Firstly, you never really entirely leave it behind. There'll always be a tiny part of your heart painted orange and studded with Swarovski. You might pretend to be above acrylics and offensively-hued velour, but such integral bastions of WAG life cannot so simply be erased from head and heart. Even if you are masquerading as a normie now.
It's a hard life to give up. Swapping sunbeds for sunblock and Chinawhites for Chinese takeaways takes courage. That and the promise of one day being taken seriously as, you know, a human being. Even by yourself. A pivotal moment of change for me was when I realised the white tips of my sprayed-on French manicure were longer than the pink. That and getting voted 'Most likely to become a porn star' at the end of my first year at Uni. At the time I was smug, now I'm mortified that it's immortalised in my yearbook. Although, in my defence, University is ostensibly a time for experimentation. I just did it with skin tone and varying sizes of hoop earring.
My sartorial compass, well and truly broken (but at least bedazzled), also pointed me in the direction of The Boy, who came complete with diamond studs, Billy Big Balls cigars and sunglasses that he wore inside. I may or may not have done this too. It's a wonder I was never beaten up for looking like such a wanker. So once I realised that all the monogrammed Louis Vuitton was making me look a bit of a tit, or at the very least like I'd come out in a bad rash, I took the decision to reform. So-long sunbeds and ta-ta tongue ring, it was time for a make-under.
Now, I'd be lying if I said I didn't often threaten to tumble off the WAGon, wobbling precariously on the precipice of tanorexic and stuck at the crossroads of hair extensions and wears too much pink. I'll always have a soft spot for quite bad RnB music. I'll always look at out-and-proud WAGs with a kind of bittersweet nostaglia for a time when they were my kinfolk as well as my competition. And I'll always have the kind of dance moves that look like my ass is on fire and I'm trying to put it out. My hair extensions went, then they came back again. A remnant of WAGdom that I just couldn't shake. Lash extensions make a guest appearance every now and then, as does the occasional too-dark spray tan. But fashion's not a world that embraces the WAG easily, if at all. Just look at Posh - a successful line in Roland Mouret copies tailored dresses and some extension-removal can't pull the weave over our eyes. She'll always be Queen WAG. And like her, my telltale signs will forever remain. She has her bunions and boobs, I have my love of Jersey Shore and a significant collection of genuine cubic zirconia jewellery...
*Ok, fine. Stripper make-up has been broken out already.
Chanel iPad case - no explanation necessary
After...
Before...
After...
Not only are they utterly adorable, the Spanish-born Vicente and Raul know their stuff inside out, having practiced the art (and it IS an art) of hair extensions for over 10 years. They're also talented colourists - this is so key when you have any kind of extensions put in as you need your real hair colour to be professionally matched to the extensions, otherwise it just looks fake. And not in the good Cheryl Cole way. In the terrible, £10-a-packet, My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding way. My big, bouncy curls were beautifully matched to my colour while I sat and gossiped with the boys, sipped tea and exchanged car boot sale tips in their lovely London flat, although they will travel to you if you're within Greater London.
