The best waterproof mascara

(for when you are ambushed by grief)

By Claire

Before I jump in, the best waterproof mascara is Lash Power by Clinique. It won’t move even if you get dumped and have your pants pulled down and fall over in front of your nemesis then find out  your dog has died.

I’ve lured you here under false pretences. This post is about grief, so just skip it if you’re feeling tender.

Last year, my dad died. He’d been pretty ill for a really long time, but then he took a turn and had been just hanging on joylessly for three weeks in a hospital, then a hospice. The hospital was noisy and lively and uncomfortable. They kept trying to revive him, which everyone involved knew was futile. It was really hard to watch. We were glad when they eventually gave up and he moved to the hospice, which was less noisy and let you have a real mug instead of a polystyrene cup.

Dad died ten days after my second son was born, and I just don’t think my brain was able to process it. I actually gave birth in the same hospital, as he withered away four floors above me. ‘One in, one out. It’s quite poetic!’ I kept saying, unconvincingly. It wasn’t poetic at all, it was totally shit. The midwives found out and felt sorry for me. I got a private room, one they usually keep for women recovering from still births, with the most breathtaking view of London I’ve ever seen. My dad’s parting gift to me.

The weeks that passed I was a bit sad, but mostly relieved, which I felt ashamed of. My lovely dad, who had been so clever and kind and brilliant – didn’t he deserve some proper grief? Some wailing and mourning? I was just so glad I didn’t have to clean up his piss or worry about him wandering around the house and turning the gas hob on at night, or argue with him about where his parents were. My mum was really sad, but I couldn’t take it on. It irritated me. I was busy, all the time, with this tiny baby. I just didn’t have the bandwidth.

You read about grief hitting you like a freight train from out of nowhere, but that hadn’t happened to me yet. I was worried it was never going to. Was I so hardened to the idea of losing him? Had the poisonous drip-drip of dementia just been too dragged out? Had all the romance of death been taken out of the equation? I waited patiently to be bowled over by something, some presence of him, but nothing came. Just relief that he was dead and that he wasn’t in pain and that I didn’t have to help him guide his pee into the toilet whilst he shouted at me any more.

In September, a whole year after he died, I went to a big staff meeting at work where a Senior Man (whom I’d never met or seen or heard, having been on maternity leave) gave a very charming and warm staff update. I had heard only good things about Senior Man, that he was a natural speaker, a safe pair of hands and calming presence.

He sounded exactly like my dad. The same tone and cadence and comic timing.

When I saw Senior Man and heard him talk, I peed in the wetsuit of my own grief. It was a full body reaction, sadness and recognition spreading over me. Alarm bells rang, I needed to get out, go anywhere, and cry like an animal.

When I had my first baby I was absolutely furious that no one had just taken me aside and let me know the extent of how hard and miserable I would find it. After a while, I figured out that this hardship was in fact, untellable. Grief is the same: you can only know once you’re in the club. The baby is one now, everyone is sleeping a bit more, and I feel ready to feel things. I am ready to press the bruise.

I go to the London Film School website, the place he worked for 40 years. They have a photo of him (the one I recognise from his staff pass, with a nice green GAP jumper me and mum had chosen for him one Christmas) and an obituary. There was also a link to a video that was broken. I emailed them, and within 20 minutes was sent every bit of footage they had of him by a stranger who now worked there. She told me she knew how I felt, and that she was happy to be able to help me. She was also a member of the club.

On Saturday, it will be the Mexican Day of the Dead.  Families build ‘ofrendas’: altars to loved ones covered in their favourite objects, pictures and foods. They remember their loved ones, they press the bruise gladly. Here is my ofrenda to my dad: Trowel style, product by product.

MUJI nail clippers

Dad was always neat as a pin. Not caddish or fashionable, but always elegant. He loved MUJI, which opened it’s first shop near his office in the 90s. He felt they did the best pens, and the best slippers. They also do the best nail clippers – demon sharp, with a clever little cover on the body which collects clippings. I think I get my interest in finding the best version of everything from my dad. He would have loved the Strategist.

Givenchy pour Homme

This is the main aftershave I remember him wearing. It is in a glass and red plastic bottle that looks a bit Star Trek. Dad really appreciated perfume in the same way he liked really nice food. He could totally see why it was a thing. He wasn’t just slapping on Brut to charm the ladies. For a while he wore Mouchoir de Monsieur by Guerlain, then Pour un Homme by Caron: both of them warm lavender smells with a stately quality to them. Givenchy Pour Homme was the one though.

Hair scissors and tea towel

Dad had shit hair. Sorry, but it’s true. He was bald on top and grey and bushy on the sides. He hated going to the barbers, thought it was boring and couldn’t see the point. Instead he let my mum cut it badly for him at the kitchen table with an old pair of purple hairdressing scissors and a tea towel.

Swarfega

I think Swarfega is the key smell for my dad. If you aren’t familiar, it’s a green gel hand cleaner for mechanics and engineers, which deals with hands covered in motor oil. Dad had a beloved motorbike that he enjoyed taking apart and reassembling every six weeks or so. He had a cotton pair of overalls and when he got those out plus to tub of Swarfega, you knew he meant business. I wish you could wear it as a perfume.

Monmouth street coffee

Speaking of perfume, there’s nothing quite like carrying a bag of Monmouth Street freshly ground coffee on a packed tube at rush hour. Dad did this regularly from central London to Willesden Green. It’s very heady, people start looking around and sniffing the air. He went and bought speciality beans to use in his little farty Krups espresso machine YEARS before coffee culture invaded the UK. He even had a little manual grinder which you had to clamp between your thighs and turn like crazy for five minutes for about a tablespoon of ground coffee. He would swoon over our coffee set up now.

Calippo

In the very end, the thing he liked most was a Calippo. Sweet and cold and the only bit of hydration we could get into him. I will forever be grateful to Calippos for existing and that the Royal Free Hospital has the wherewithal to stock them. Have a strong coffee and a cold ice lolly and salute him, maybe dreaming up your own ofrenda.

Back to crass beauty next time.