This week, having returned from my second festival in as many weeks, I’ve deduced that ‘festival-girls’ fall into three distinct categories: The Grunges, who embrace every aspect of the festival lifestyle - from the knee-deep lashings of mud, to the greasy limp locks of unwashed hair; The Try-Hards (like myself) who attempt very enthusiastically to establish that classic magazine ‘festival look’ only to resemble a dredged up piece of portaloo-matter a day and a half after arriving, and finally; The Plastics who look every inch the pop-princess, complete with flower head-bands, loosely curled hair and fake eyelashes. I can even prove this because I spotted a tube of lash glue amidst the beer cans and vomit clogging up the sinks.
Personally, I could never be ‘The Grunge’ because every time I throw away my vanity and allow my face to go make-up free, or even if I just wear my hair effortlessly in a low-slung pony-tail, I unfortunately, and inevitably take on the face of my brother – the features are already there, I just normally disguise them under a mass of beauty products and carefully sculpted hair. And let’s face it, no one wants to look so grunge, they look like a less attractive version of their own brother.
I used to think I would like to be in The Plastic category, simply because they get the most attention and I’m not one to let-up on an attention-seeking situation. However, having endured an entire three days having to look at the tiniest of denim hot pants and a whole lot of derrière, I’ve discovered that the attention is more embarrassing than flattering. In fact it got to a point where the festivities of the weekend were no longer making me feel nauseous but the deluge of derrière was. I realise that when you’re wearing these cheek-peaking hot pants you can’t actually see what your behind looks like, but to subject other people to such sights is a clear breach of my human rights. Perhaps I’m just jealous? Indeed, the majority of these girls had assets to be proud of and I’m no J-Lo myself but in reality there was just too much of it – all ass and no class so to speak.
In festival situations I would absolutely love to roll out of my tent looking like a model on a Vogue shoot – rather than the alternative which involves me waking up head down in a suspiciously wet corner of the tent and with nest-like hair welded together with last Friday’s hairspray, forty-eight hours worth of dirt and half a bottle of WKD someone sprayed over me the night before. Of course I would, but even with all the eyelash glue in the world, when I’m at a festival, I’m still just going to look a mess – another Try-Hard failure who didn’t quite make the ‘cool-crew’.
Inevitably, next year when festival season comes round again, I will fall, as ever into The Try Hard category; having carefully studied the magazines weeks in advance and prepared the quintessential socks and wellies combo to perfection, only to end up looking as rough, and if recent years are anything to go by, looking even rougher than the festival before. What else do I expect when I don’t wash for three days and spray enough dry-shampoo to cover everyone around me in a thin layer of white dust?
I’m actually beginning to believe that looking horrific is all part of the festival-fun and I intend to keep going to them for as long as I am young – or until the day I get Facebook tagged as my brother, that is the day I will hang up my festival wellies for good….Hunters though of course.