The sky's the limit

When does paying a lot of attention to your personal appearance just mean healthy self-respect and when does it turn into obsessive vanity? Or is the label "vanity" simply a gratuitous insult?

Men and women are judged differently of course. What might be dismissed as sheer vanity in a man (getting a manipedi or a leg wax, say) would be seen as normal behaviour in a woman. Forever looking in a mirror might seem odd for a man, but not for a woman.

American journalist Tom Shone confesses he devotes a lot of time to his appearance. He makes sure photos get his "good side", he trims his hair every morning, he has a pile of creams and lotions, he exfoliates. He thinks he's horribly vain.

Actually he doesn't sound very vain at all. I've read of men who're far more body-conscious than he is - going to the gym every day, getting plastic surgery, removing every trace of body hair, getting hair transplants. Tom is a mere beginner in the vanity stakes.

But women have to go much farther to be accused of vanity. When I was young, women were seen as "vain" if they did anything more than be moderately attractive. Nowadays the sky's the limit and women go to such extraordinary lengths to enhance their appearance that the word "vanity" becomes meaningless. Their endless body-awareness isn't narcissism, it's merely an attempt to meet an ideal of female beauty that gets more rarified, more impossible by the day.

The typical dolled-up news presenter, in a tight-fitting dress, thick layer of make-up, three inch heels and bottle-blonde hair, isn't seen as vain but simply dressing the way she's expected to.

Personally I have barely a shred of vanity. I try to be presentable, but beyond that my body is of little interest to me. I'd hate to be bald or over-run with body hair, but that's about it.

So is the word "vanity" obsolete or does it still mean something?

Aren't I wonderful?

I'm not narciss-istic. I'm not obsessed with myself or my appear-ance. I don't spend hours gazing critically into the mirror. I would say I examine myself just enough to be a healthy, well-adjusted human being.

I don't endlessly deliberate if I should reshape my nose or dye my hair or wax my back. I don't slather myself with moisturisers and perfume and exfoliants. I don't dwell over every detail of my behaviour. I don't swell with pride over my achievements or wallow in self-pity over my failures. I don't hold forth about every ongoing personal saga. I don't imagine I'm astonishingly talented or charismatic.

Of course a bit of self-analysis and self-awareness is essential if I'm to relate intelligently and considerately to others. Those embarrassing individuals who never examine themselves and have little insight into their own motives or the messages they're sending out are already too numerous.

But those tiresome me-worshippers who find their own existence far more fascinating than the trivial lives of anyone else are pretty infuriating.

Every so often I have the misfortune to be at a social gathering where one self-absorbed guest is blathering on about the ins and outs of their humdrum everyday life as if every detail is front-page news, while the other guests listen politely and wonder how long this interminable monologue might last. If they manage to interrupt the flow for long enough to broach a change of subject, Mr or Ms Aren't-I-Wonderful will either find some personal slant on the new topic or ignore it altogether.

If anything, I'm the opposite of narcissistic, I tend to be too self-effacing and too intrigued by other people's conversation to make a proper contribution of my own. I find my life fascinating but I'm never entirely convinced that others might think the same. I need a lot of persuading that people actually want to know about me and my tangled personality. I'm quite capable of lengthy silences if I'm not totally confident of other people's genuine interest.

Apart from anything else, it must take so much effort to be narcissistic. Constantly talking yourself up, screening out criticism, tweaking the unflattering reality into something more impressive. You can't let up for a moment, or the mask will slip and the mere mortal will re-emerge. Unthinkable!

Lingering delusions

As you get older, so it's said, you know yourself better and shed all the self-delusions of youth. Is that really true? Or are we still busy fooling ourselves?

They're hard questions to answer, because we can never really see ourselves objectively, as others see us. We're always on the inside looking out, and from the inside, through the prism of vanity and self-interest, it's easy to keep distorting the truth.

I've certainly shed a few youthful illusions - that I'm a brilliant writer, or a witty conversationalist, or a sensitive shoulder to cry on, or that the great socialist revolution is just round the corner. Some pretences simply can't be sustained in the light of overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

I like to think I've got a more realistic picture of my strengths and weaknesses. The things I've got a talent for and the things I'm hopeless at however hard I try. I no longer think I'm unique or special, I realise I'm just an averagely intelligent person who somehow muddles through life without making too many gigantic blunders.

But am I really any more self-aware? Or have I just picked up a load of fresh delusions to replace the old ones? Like thinking that as an oldie I'm more wised-up than all these inexperienced teenagers? Or thinking I'm a patient, forgiving soul when I'm regularly bristling over poor service and mindless officialdom? Or convinced I'm altruistic and caring while expecting others to solve their own problems and not be too demanding?

Even if I ask others how they see me, how their impressions compare with my own, are their conclusions any more accurate than mine? They may have created a certain image of me, and they tailor their observations to fit the image. If they've decided I'm shy and indecisive, that's how they'll keep seeing me, whether it's true or false.

At the end of the day, my picture of myself is too tarnished by optimism and wishful thinking to be relied on. Am I still as deluded as a muddle-headed schoolboy? Who knows? Who can see that clearly?

Beyond vanity

When I was a boy, paying too much attention to your appearance was regarded as unseemly vanity. Particularly in the case of women. Tarting yourself up, using too much makeup, having fancy hairdos, and any sign of excessive primping and preening, was dismissed contemptuously as nothing but vanity.

Somewhere along the line that all changed and constant attention to your appearance was no longer vain but completely normal. Everyone wanted to "look their best" or "make the most of themselves". Naturally a woman wanted a more flattering hairstyle or a smoother complexion, anything less was "letting yourself go".

Now we've moved even farther and perfecting your appearance is not just normal but almost compulsory, a measure of self-worth. Spending huge amounts of time and money achieving the looks of a film star or a supermodel now shows that you value yourself, you believe in your potential and your talents.

Anyone who isn't feverishly botoxing, boosting their breast size, having a Hollywood or adding highlights clearly doesn't think much of themselves. They're content to be the sort of second-rate, unimportant low-achievers nobody ever notices. Improving your appearance is now as vital as taking a degree or buying your first home. It demands rigorous effort and single-mindedness.

For too many women (and increasing numbers of men) tarting yourself up is no longer a naughty pleasure but a daily treadmill, another domestic chore that mustn't be neglected. The innocent days of unseemly vanity are long gone.

How did this shift of emphasis take place? How did we slide so unwittingly into such an all-demanding obsession?
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The gap in life expectancy and health prospects between the rich and the poor in the UK is now greater than during the post World War One slump and the Great Depression. And that's after 13 years of a Labour government....

Distorted self

Our self-image is alarmingly unreliable. The way we see ourselves can be very different from how we actually are, and very different from how others see us.

What do you mean I'm beautiful? I'm just a dumpy housewife who's let herself go. A good organiser, me? I leave everything to the last minute and then trust to luck.

How illuminating it would be if we could step outside our own skins for a day and see ourselves as others see us. We might be in for a surprise or two. A lot of self-delusion and a lot of false modesty might be stripped away.

I think most of us tend either to over-estimate or under-estimate ourselves. We all know the two types - the vain, pompous individuals who're convinced they know it all and the shy, apologetic ones who imagine all they ever do is make mistakes.

I'd say I'm one of the under-estimators. I constantly play down my intelligence, my practical skills, my likeability, my financial resources, my emotional resilience and my enjoyment of life.

People are always contradicting my unassuming descriptions of myself, telling me I'm more capable than I make out. But whenever I compare myself with others, I invariably conclude that they tick all the boxes while I'm obviously lacking.

It doesn't seem possible to have a completely accurate picture of one's identity, everything gets slightly distorted by some preconceived notion of what we'd like to be, or what we feel comfortable with, or what excites us.

The most bizarre example must be the woman who's adamant she's revoltingly fat when in reality her size is completely normal. Or on the other hand, the man who thinks he's Adonis despite his beer belly, hairy nostrils and combover.

In fact our capacity for self-delusion is virtually infinite. You only have to look at some of those strutting politicians and talentless celebs. How our minds do merrily mislead us.

Surgical free-for-all

Once again there's a call for better regulation of plastic surgery* to prevent tragic botch-ups and stop inexperienced medics from doing risky procedures.

Demand for cosmetic surgery jumped again last year, but there are no controls on it apart from a voluntary code of practice that's easily ignored.

In France all advertising of cosmetic procedures is banned, and only registered specialists can do them. Quite right too when most of the operations are medically unnecessary and can ruin people's lives if they go wrong.

The London Independent mentions Jill Saward, ex lead singer of Shakatak, who almost died during a facelift after complications caused by high blood pressure. "I was an idiot, I should have thought much more carefully about it" she says.

One solution would be to ban cosmetic surgery altogether, but I think people should be able to make up their own minds about it, as long as they are made fully aware of the serious risks involved.

An estimated 100,000 procedures are done in Britain every year, many by doctors with no specialist training. Things like Botox injections and laser peels are often done by staff with no medical qualifications at all. How can this be allowed?

If only women (and a growing number of men) could accept the way they look as perfectly okay, without comparing themselves with digitally enhanced models and finding a long list of imaginary defects. Then plastic surgery wouldn't be such a boom industry and the sacrifice of innocent flesh to finance someone's millionaire lifestyle might lose its attraction.

But if misguided souls will insist on putting themselves under the knife, at least the surgeon's competence should be properly vouched for.

* Surgery done privately that is. There are of course very strict controls on cosmetic surgery done by the NHS.

A life cut short

What a nightmare it is when some innocent, everyday action turns into an endless disaster you can never be rid of. As happened to Denise Hendry when she tried to lose a bit of fat after giving birth.

In 2002 she booked a liposuction session, as thousands of women do every day, but in her case it all went horribly wrong. The surgeon damaged her bowel and colon, leading to multiple organ failure, her heart stopping for four minutes, and blood poisoning.

She had to have corrective surgery to repair the damage but that too was unsuccessful. A few months ago, she had further corrective surgery but contracted a meningitis-type infection, went into a coma and died 11 weeks later. She was just 42.

This dreadful saga of incompetence and misfortune certainly undermines belief in some benign creator watching over us and keeping us from harm. A novel this calamitous would be dismissed as incredible.

Not surprisingly Denise's experiences led her to campaign about the dangers of plastic surgery and the need to check out your surgeon's credentials thoroughly before they let rip on a vulnerable human body.

I've said before that I see no need for cosmetic surgery unless someone is seriously disfigured. Most of the imagined defects being remedied are invisible to everyone else and the real problem is the desire for a non-existent perfect body.

Unfortunately in Denise's case this desire meant not just a nice little earner for a greedy surgeon but a devastated and drastically shortened life.

People always play down the serious medical risks involved in a supposedly routine operation. But the fact is that any operation can go appallingly wrong, and when it does it's too late for second thoughts. Just say no!

Photo: Denise Hendry

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Katie the cat has mysteriously reappeared after two weeks' absence. We did ask her where she had been all this time but she refused to say. I suspect a failed romance she'd rather not discuss.

Fatal vanity

The tragic consequences of unnecessary plastic surgery have been shown yet again with the death of a 33 year old Dublin man who was afraid his wife would leave him for a better-looking man.

After extensive cosmetic surgery in Colombia, which his 23 year old wife begged him not to have, he died of a heart attack. She said she had lost “the most beautiful thing” in her life, and had been left to look after a new baby.

But Pierre Lawlor was convinced he was "fat and ugly and had big ears" and was terrified his young Venezuelan wife Andrea would leave him for one of his friends. So he arranged for liposuction plus work on his eyes, cheekbones, nose and neck.

The surgery proved disastrous and the Dublin coroner concluded that the physical strain of the lengthy procedures had led to a cardiac arrest.

Andrea had told him he was "foolish" to get the surgery. "I didn't think he needed it," she said. "He was paranoid all the time about his looks and getting old and what people would think when they see us together."

The huge risks of plastic surgery, even for fit and healthy people, are constantly trivialised but are very real. It’s crazy to embark on it if it’s purely for reasons of vanity and insecurity.

Even if he thought he was not too attractive and was maybe disappointing his wife, he should have accepted the risk of her going off with someone else rather than having himself ‘improved’. Who knows, she might not have liked the so-called ‘improvements’ anyway. We all know how false and unnatural such surgery can make people look.

It seems he had the same problem of distorted body image that many women have. He was convinced he was ugly even though his wife denied it, and he just refused to listen to her. What he really needed wasn’t surgery but some serious counselling on his abnormal view of himself.

A woman's lot

A rather brave journalist called Jemima Lewis* has dared to say that if most women feel stressed and miserable, it's entirely their fault and nothing to do with men.

Instead of giving themselves impossible workloads and trying to do everything perfectly, they should follow men's example and lower their standards, do less and relax more.

She believes the reason women push themselves so hard is not to impress men but to compete with other women and satisfy their own vanity.

Men don't waste time wondering if the wallpaper is passé, if their thighs are too big or if their Christmas presents are thoughtful and personal enough. "They have more pressing matters to attend to, such as having a good time".

Well, I have to admit, at the risk of giving Medbh apoplexy, that I tend to agree with her.

I've known a lot of restless women who thought nothing in their life was quite good enough and were in a constant frenzy of upgrading and modernising. Home, job, friends, men, personal appearance - everything was ruthlessly evaluated and found wanting.

They always claimed that all they wanted to do was sprawl on the settee with a glass of champagne and a good book, but in practice they couldn't sit down for two minutes without wondering if the carpet needed hoovering or the spice jars needed refilling.

None of these details bothered me, but they were preoccupied with them. Of course like everyone else, I want to make my life more comfortable and more satisfying, but I'm not going to bust a gut in the process. I'll take it at a leisurely pace, thanks, and I'll take time to admire the scenery on the way. Including the slightly dated wallpaper.

* writing in the London Independent, 29.09.07