Victoria Beckham claims to go to bed in a home-made avo and apricot face mask. Don’t know what the delicious David has to say about that, though.
Now I know what it feels like to be Victoria Beckham. For the past five nights I have lived her celebrity lifestyle. Not sharing a bed with Becks’s pecks, alas, cuddling her adorable baby girl, Harper, or sorting through a million-pound collection of Birkin bags. Instead, I have, like Posh, gone to bed wearing a ‘miracle’ avocado and apricot mask.
Forget Botox or laser peels, this home-made skin rejuvenator is supposedly what Victoria swears by. It’s meant to perk up skin, improve its texture and reduce fine lines — all for less than £10 (about R125).
As a devotee of more high-tech products, I was sceptical, but willing to give it a go — after all, Victoria Beckham has the best dermatologists in the world at her (well-manicured) fingertips, so she should know what she’s talking about.
Before I began my Posh skin-plan, I went to see Nick Miedzianowski-Sinclair at the 3D Cosmetic Imagining Studios in Wimpole Street, just off Harley Street, who offered to give me a professional opinion of the effect this miracle mush was having on my skin.
Nick stuck my face inside the visia camera, which looked like a huge space helmet and took 3D images which showed in lurid, close-up detail the sun damage, wrinkles and fine veins on my face.
It was painless — until a few minutes later, when he showed me the horrible truth on his computer. My face was transformed into an unflattering mask of blotches and lines.
The only good news he had was that my skin is 20 per cent less damaged than most women of my age.
And after seeing my skin stripped of all make-up and dignity, I was prepared to try anything to improve it — including smearing my face with mashed-up apricots and avocados.
I’m no stranger to home-made facials: I tried my first when I was in my early teens, mixing porridge oats with honey into a hideously lumpy paste that was pressed into the skin then left until it dried.
The first time I tried it, I lay out in the sun to speed up the process, fell asleep and awoke to find the next-door neighbour’s dog licking my face.
Then there was the yogurt and honey mask, which was deeply moisturising and great for adolescent spots.
My sixth-form experiments with mashed-up aloe vera leaves weren’t so successful, however: I came out in a big, red, lumpy rash — just before my first date with the cutest boy in the school.
I tried to convince him I’d had an allergic reaction to something I’d eaten, but he never asked me out again.
I gave up on DIY skincare when I could afford more sophisticated alternatives made by the cosmetic companies — with slightly more positive results.
So it’s something of a surprise to be turning full-circle and heading off to the supermarket before giving Posh’s home-made face mask a try.
Fresh apricots are hard to find at this time of year, but I managed to order some from my local greengrocer, along with a bag of ripe avocados, at a cost of about £8. I used a mortar and pestle to grind the apricots into a smooth paste — which is virtually impossible with all those tough bits of skin — then added the avocado.
When I mixed them they turned into a sludgy brown mush, and you’re not allowed to add lemon to stop it oxidising, as you would with a fruit salad.
Then, on it went — with great difficulty. The paste was so thick that I couldn’t just smear the mask on, I had to literally press it onto my skin.
I considered wrapping my head in clingfilm to keep the gunk in place, but thought the chances of death by suffocation too great a price to pay for A-List beauty.
Sources close to Victoria say she hasn’t the time to languish about in a face mask during the day, so will often go to bed with this goo on her face.
Either Mr and Mrs Beckham don’t share a bed, or she saves this skin treat for when he is away. For what woman would want to be seen by a desirable man like Becks covered in guacamole?
For that matter, what man would want to roll over for some nocturnal nookie and kiss a face covered in brown, lumpy slime? Luckily when I trotted off to bed, looking like a monster from an episode of Dr Who, I was alone.
