A New Chick In Town

There are some people you should never shop with.

1. My mother, who says things like, “Do you really need it?” Who cares? I really want it and that’s what matters.

2. My husband, “Why spend hundreds on tasteful garden furniture when that yellow plastic set over there costs just £9.99? And it comes with a free terracotta fringed parasol and avocado seat pads”.

3. And me. “Go on, buy it! Who cares about the mortgage? That’s why God invented overdrafts!”

“God didn’t invent overdrafts.” My friend was sure on this point. She’d worked in a bank.
“Whatever. They’re divine and it would be sacrilege not to use them!” I wafted the gorgeous red bag under her nose, recognising the wanton glimmer in her eyes. She was wavering and just needed a helpful nudge. Her future happiness depended on it. “It can be your break-up bag.” She reached out tentatively and stroked it.

“I deserve a break-up bag” she whispered.
“Yes, you do. It’s an essential part of the healing process.” Modelling it for her, I tried not to get too attached as whiffs of fine leather tantalised my nostrils.

I demonstrated its many features. “It’s fully lined, with mobile phone holder, inner pocket and matching mirror.”
“Ooh, look at the mirror” she cooed with big, round eyes.
In her trance like state, it was easy to discreetly ditch her tartan flannel satchel and replace it with the real handbag.
“See how it transforms your outfit” I said, repositioning her in front of the mirror.
She nodded, dumbfounded. She was like a chick that had just peeked out of the nest. Teetering on shaky legs, on the cusp of a new world she’d never known. Fortunately, I was there to direct her straight from the treetops and into the shops.
“This white one would look fabulous too”. I swiftly installed it on her shoulder.
“I didn’t think I liked white handbags but now I think I might” she said with reverence.

It had taken eight years, but I felt we might just be on the brink of a retail revolution.

“And we could straighten your hair and put it in a tousled side bun”. I demonstrated as I spoke. She was glazed from the information overload. A classic tomboy with no sisters - I had so much to teach her.

That night, coiffed to within an inch of her life, and 6ft in her heels, the promenade was her catwalk. She was like Pretty Woman, when she gets the credit card and I was Barney, the one who encouraged the spending.

However, by the end of the week, Glamour Chick was higher maintenance than the Chick I’d left at home. Chirping at 7am each morning for her feathers to be de-frizzed and unable to grasp the most basic of grooming theory, I felt it was time for a chat.

“I’ve been thinking, I actually really like your hair curly!”