Vanity kills. Or in my case, bruises badly.
First of all, I need you to know I do my own hair and makeup every night before I do the news. Everyone who anchors in Winnipeg does their own hair and makeup. It’s only the fancy shmancy folks in big markets like Toronto and Montreal who get the pampered treatment anymore.
Why do I need you to know this above all else? For sympathy.
I’m hoping you’ll cut me some slack when my hair’s a mess or my makeup job’s subpar. We all have our good days and bad days, right?
I thought Tuesday was going to be an OK hair day. I’d pulled the sides of my hair up into a kind of mini-bun, with the back of my hair still down and curled softly. I thought it actually looked pretty good.
In real life, updos don’t have to be perfectly symmetrical. In fact, they often look better when they’re a little bit messy. Not on TV.
Once the camera zooms in and makes my head almost as big as your big-screen TV, an updo that’s a bit off-kilter just looks weird, like the top scoop of an ice cream cone that’s starting to melt and slip off to the side.
No slippage here. This simple ‘do was symmetrical, and I’d even managed to leave matching little whisps hanging down in either side of my face.
So Tuesday night, I’m sitting on the stool on the top of the little round platform on which I read the 5 p.m. news, waiting for the show to begin. I looked in the monitor and thought I looked pale, so I decided to throw on a little blush.
My makeup bag was over behind the desk where I read the 5:30 and 6 p.m. newscasts. (Does anyone even notice I change locations?) No problem. Three minutes to go, I’ll scout over, get the makeup bag, and be back on my perch before anyone even notices. What could possibly go wrong?
I’m not sure how it happened, but somehow, as I attempted to climb back up onto my 5 p.m. stool, I lost my balance and fell, face first, twisting on the way down to the hard-tiled floor, smacking my elbow and hip as I land.
Two minutes to air. Excellent.
So much for my good hair day. I looked like I had just walked through a wind tunnel. Those lovely little whisps framing my face? They were now joined by big straggly chunks of hair that had broken free of my mini-updo; nothing symmetrical about them.
One minute to air.
Why do we worry about looking perfect?
“Have a good show,” someone said in my ear.
And I thought I was pale before.