“A make-up brush
costs £30? Is it made of gold?” my husband shouted and threw up both his hands
when he was observing me logging my tax return.
He rolls his eyes
and makes that huffing noise and shakes his head at me. I have boxes of receipts,
so you can imagine how many theatrical displays he has been through.
His physical theatre and dance routine has to be seen to be believed. The
Ballet Rambert would take note of his expressive routines.
The man practically
does a Gangnam style exasperated jig every twenty seconds.
“£40 for a bra? Is
it made of gold?” Yes he mentioned gold again.
“Salon haircut £80?”
he screeched. “Did they cut your hair with gold scissors?”
I thought to myself: If he makes one more gold
reference I may have to strap a canoe onto my back and fake my own death.
Husband does not
understand the costs of make up and female maintenance. This is the man who
audibly squealed like a girl at the cost of a supermarket’s own-brand
moisturiser:
“How can they charge
£7 for a wee bottle that size? What is in it? GOLD?”
Other female
shoppers looked at me with pitying glances, probably thankful their own
annoying husbands didn’t bother to come with them to buy face cream.
“Look - That pot is
only £1 and it’s twice the size!”
He grabbed a tub of
Vaseline and tried to tempt me with its moisturising properties. A frantic man
shoving Vaseline into your face in a supermarket aisle does tend to draw a
crowd.
I looked warily at
the tub and suggested where he could shove it and I pointed out to him that it
would go up there surprisingly easy. The crowd smiled and followed us slowly,
surely there would be more purchase hilarity to follow?
He is such a
tight-fisted scrooge when it comes to shopping.
He buys giant packs
of cheap razors that leave my legs with more cuts and rashes than a bramble
picker who has just survived an air crash that nose-dived into a nettle field.
His cheap, family
sized bottles of gloopy green shampoo have literally blinded me in the shower,
overwhelmed me with their apple scent and can make my hair look as if it’s been
back-combed badly by an angry nun.
Oh – and, by the way
- according to husband, I don’t need conditioner. This is a man who
considers 'conditioner' a luxury item.
Has he seen my
curly, tufty hair?
Without a decent
conditioner, it takes three hours to brush after the astringent shampoo has
left my locks so squeaky clean. It’s like trying to brush out a wet Shetland
pony with a nit comb.
Hair maintenance
isn’t the biggest issue with his cheap buying tactics.
When rifling through
my receipts, he was astounded that I had managed to buy three jumpers in one
shopping trip. Why would I need three new tops? He was agog at my outlandish,
extravagant lifestyle.
“I have had the same
jumper since 1987,” he proudly announced. “It’s still a good top and I wear it
all the time.”
“Yes, I know,” I
sniggered. “That’s why the local kids call you Catweazle.”
He will only buy one
pair of jeans, wear them, wash them constantly and throw them away when they
fall apart. Then he buys a new pair for £7 in one of those giant cheap discount
stores in Sauchiehall Street.
To him, men who wear
designer clothes are either incredibly vain or mentally challenged. No single
item of his clothing costs more than £10 maximum and he will shop around until
he gets the price he wants.
That’s being clever
in his head.
Husband isn’t one of
those men who wears ‘Moisturiser for Men’ or other male grooming products.
I am not sure I
would like the idea of my man going for a facial or having a skin regime.
Somehow that makes me feel queasy.
God forbid he took
to stroking some clear mascara on his eyelashes for a special night out! His
spending habits are near to minimal… unless you count his Pound Shop habit.
He adores the stores
that do ‘Everything for a Pound’. He is stockpiling cheap cups, doormats and
giant sets of screwdrivers.
At least this leaves
surplus cash for me to buy all my mascara, clothes, shoes, hair brushes …all
made of gold obviously.
So thanks for reading, if you want follow me on
twitter @JaneyGodley for updates.