About Carole Morin

Posts by Carole Morin

My Bad Hair Miracle

bad hair day sign

Some people have bad hair days; I’ve had a bad hair life. Starting when I head-butted a hairdresser “somewhere in Mayfair” who gave me a Dennis the Menace when I’d asked for a Kate Bush. My mum Maddie doesn’t recall the salon, just the embarrassment of being asked to leave without paying and a trip to Regent’s Park Zoo where a gang of monkeys tried to steal me.

Her punchline when telling this story is always, “Your haircut wasn’t that bad!” The brunette in a family of blondes, Maddie did her best to Blondie me but couldn’t get my locks lighter than banana; which clashed with the wee red blazer of my school uniform. I had to wear a balaclava until Aunt Irene the Slut bought me a Lolita wig in a porn shop when she came on one of her flying visits from New York where she lived in self-imposed exile away from the disapproval of her six sisters. Read More…

Weirdo Of The Week Award

Rolled jeans

Just another abnormal day in the life of a VH addict. Selfish Jean is threatening to appear with a tape measure and it’s time to wake up and smell the coffee; after the manservant makes it obvs. Of course at Addicts Mansions we drink Curcumin Latte with an Aduna Super-Cacao chaser. A similar high to so-last-century cocaine; without the risk of widening your beak until a family of five can move in up there with their furniture.

I lay back on my SilkSkin pillow, which keeps my hair Stemm smooth, while the manservant asked nosey-parker questions about my dreams. You know that nightmare when you’re running but never quite manage to escape the strange man who’s chasing you? I turn round and punch him in the face. Let the strange man be careful. Read More…

Confessions Of A VH Addict

Addict

Addiction is in my blood, but in a family of junkies I was the one without a habit. Daddy gave up dialysis to spend more time in the pub. Mummy is hooked on smoking, shopping and risking skin cancer in the sun. My brother took the conventional route with sex, drugs, and suicide. ‘Drugs,’ as Dr Dex is fond of saying, ‘are only a problem when you stop taking them.’ Despite having diplomatic immunity at High School, I was never into angel dust and downed water before it was fashionable. ‘Never get high on your own supply,’ as Michelle Pfeiffer warns in Scarface. It wasn’t until my supply was cut off that I realised I was an addict. Read More…

The 2.0N Club

Colours 2.0N Serum

My VH addiction was in full swing by the time I’d moved from Beijing to Soho and joined the 2.0N Club. It sounds like a cool nightclub for people who like carb free drinks instead of a foundation that looks invisible on the skin. Obsessing about getting my mitts on 2.0N is weird for me because the minute I wake up, I don’t put on make-up. My husband Dangerous insists that I look better without it. He’s never got over the time in Kiev when two nice girls I met in a cafe gave me a makeover. ‘You’d look quite pretty if you wore ten inches of panstick,’ Svetlana told me; while Verushka attacked me with gigantic false eyelashes and a can of superglue. Read More…