"So we just need a few piccies of your legs darling – you're wearing tights in the casting tape. Good job it's been sunny- you'll be all tanned!" These words from my agent sent a cold shiver down my spine. Am I buggery! Regardless of weather conditions I shall never be seen sans tights and it’s been the same year in, year out since my metabolism slowed but I defiantly continued to eat my body weight in Fondant Fancies.
And so it was that I found myself spending my lunch break fidgeting about in the teeny cubicles of the office loos, peeling off my 40 deniers in an attempt to capture my pasty pins from the most flattering angle. Forgetting to turn the flash off was a mistake – not only did it magnify the cellulite but I'm pretty sure the woman in the neighbouring cubicle thought I was taking cheeky fanny snapshots, probably to send out as some sort midday pick me up for my colleagues.
Why was I spending my lunch trying to Instagram the shit out of my legs instead of chain smoking in the nearest pub garden? Well, somehow I found myself rather far along in the casting process for a home waxing commercial. Now you will probably assume I'm of the Amazonian Goddess ilk if I'm so much as being considered for a job like this. Whilst hiding behind my laptop it is very tempting to paint the picture of a Bambi legged, Miranda Kerr type, however I've opted to be honest because a) should my mother read this she would definitely out me and b) I feel I'm not alone when it comes to having a very emotional attachment to hosiery come rain, wind or shine hence my attending a leg wax casting in Pretty Pollys.
Firstly I should explain how I came to be in such a predicament. Refreshingly they were looking for normal girls – "The sort of girl you would see down Tesco" was, I believe the exact brief, but I still had to elbow twenty or so other Plain Janes out of the way. This was something I achieved by completely selling out and revealing the very real reason I converted to home waxing (salon wax faux pas – I shan't go into the horrid business fully but I may have flashed a young therapist accidentally after some confusion over salon etiquette.)
This went down surprisingly well and I marched into the final stages like an ambitious X Factor contestant aggressively waving my sob story flag. Caught up in the excitement of a potential job that would clear my credit card and still leave me enough left over to buy that Agent Provocateur bra which will definitely make my boobs look 21 again, it didn't once cross my mind that the fat cats of the fuzz free world would want to see my legs before they ok'd me – fuckity fuck fuck!
Why was I panicking? They wanted normal girls and I'm pretty normal. I am, however very self-conscious about my knees (they look like they're frowning), plus I’ve been doing what thousands of other normal girls have been doing – hiding behind my opaque security blanket. We are so used to gale force winds and icy downpours in the middle of May, that we get comfortable and whilst most people moan about the lack of summer, I secretly rejoice.
I can delay admitting that no, I haven't stuck to my green tea and one slice of turkey diet, no, I haven’t even opened the Zumba DVD mother had snuck under the Christmas tree as a subtle hint, and that no, I had definitely not jumped on the Insanity Workout band wagon and transformed my dumpy silhouette into that of a Victoria’s Secret model by way of leaping around my living room with baked bean tins tied round my ankles. Like many a curvy girl the wintery months have seen me sporting variations of the same tired slimming uniform of flattering tea dress and tights.
But it’s not just the chubbers like me who hide their limbs away until the heat becomes so unbearable you have to pull the emergency cord on the Northern line, no no there are various tight wearing tribes. The Porcelain Skinned Petites (terrified of fake tan – understandably), Fat Girl Slims (lost the weight but still have the aftermath of stretch marks and cellulite), the Cankle Crew (black can narrow the widest of ankles). Not to mention the Varicose Vein Vamps, Bruised Betty's (usually athletic or fans of the deep tissue massage) and of course the thunder thighed. Why? Because tights are lifesavers… Spanx can knock off at least four pounds, Falkes can camouflage the unsightliest of blemishes, and fuck… the right Wolfords can help you bamboozle an unsuspecting man into bed! (Safe in the knowledge that by the time you get there hopefully he’ll be too drunk to notice…)
However, returning to my desk, I had the overwhelming urge to take a stand. Why should I swelter in the heat as the bronzed goddess opposite me swivels carefree in her chair, her long limbs luring in the men of the office like some sort of lunchtime Lolita? If they are finally realising normal girls wax too we must be moving forward! So let us all stomp the streets today cool, comfortable and bare legged! Who decided what's beautiful anyway? Surely there must be a culture out there where frowning knees symbolise fertility and friendliness and by golly I shall find it… I may book in for a Cellulaze treatment first though.
Alex Neve is an actress/stand up with big love for pesto, gin and anything that will make her bottom appear smaller and slightly firmer. She can do a forward roll (returning to stand) and once directed Geri Halliwell to the Hermes section in Harrods. Her goal this year is to achieve her childhood dream – successfully cross monkey bars. Her personal best to date is bar two. You can follow her on Twitter HERE.
Pictured: frowning knees, Alex Neve
