Flatmate and I would compete for space at the dressing table mirror in our dank little semi-basement bedroom with its inadequate lighting. No music playing while we got ready, that I can recall.
We'd often spend Saturday afternoons with our hair in spiky rollers and would clart our faces with Pan-stik foundation, (yes, I know ... bleurghhhh), Rimmel or Miners' eye shadow and mascara. I never wore false eyelashes - tried them once but couldn't stand the way they brushed against my specs. We'd be speculating about who was likely to be there at the pub that night and, later, who'd be in the club and who'd last the pace until they chucked out at 2am. Wondering if that gorgeous bouncer would be on the doors again...
The rollers would come out; we'd brush and back comb each other's hair into bouffant submission, spray the results with vast amounts of lacquer like marine varnish. Then a generous squirt of perfume: Je Reviens for her, Dorothy Gray's Folie for me.
Then into our finery - often those little empire line mini dresses someone mentioned above. I loved those dresses! Or, for a change, a see-through white nylon blouse with ruffles all down the front which just about obscured the nipples if we cared to go bra-less, teamed with a tight black skirt so short it could have done duty as a pelmet, shoes with chunky heels and ornamental buckle trims and, I cringe to think of it now, American Tan tights.
We'd pick up our vinyl, boxy shaped handbags and off we'd go, sashaying forth into the bright lights of Fulham ... Happy days!
although I wore my hair short.
