|My signature "Lift mirror selfies": obviously not from my recent Barcelona trip,|
and clearly with smaller hair, but you get the gist.
A lift mirror is never a good place to check one's reflection.
If you're surrounded by fellow lift-travellers it's just socially unacceptable to stare at oneself in the reflective panels.
If you happen to be alone then the lighting is never going to do you/your complexion/your contouring any favours, and the likelihood is that the doors will unexpectedly open on a floor and catch you poking at a spot/halfway through applying lip liner (leaving you with just a bright red line and along the edges of one lip)/trying to pluck a stray eyebrow hair with your fingernails (which makes you sneeze and your eyes water)/other such things that have never happened to me.
If you are traversing between floors with your beloved it's in the interests of your future happiness not to look.
I shall tell you why.
Whilst in Barcelona last week my hair did it's usual thing (got LARGE) firstly due to the climate and secondly due to the fact that the combination of ineffective hotel hair dryers and the act of hair drying in general makes me hot and bothered (thus exacerbating the effects of the weather), so I tend not to bother.
I tend to go out lion-headed.... Grrrrrrrr.
I was exclaiming about this fact upon our entry to the hotel lift en route to a lovely restaurant at Port Olimpic
Me: Grrrrrr! Look at my MAH-husive...
*Mr G's gaze slips to my backside*
Me: .... hair
*Mr G's eyes snap to my head - veins pulsing slightly in his neck with the tension*
Me: When I said 'MAH-husive' why did you look at my ar$e?
Mr G: *blushing* I, uh, didn't *tension vein pulsing*
Me: I saw you, In the mirror. With my own eyes.
Mr G: I didn't *the smell of adrenaline fills the lift*
Me: You did
*Mr G's eyes flick to the emergency button. He Looks for escape. Decides to tackle the lion-wife with reason...*
Mr G: Well normally when you're complaining about something massive you're talking about your bum
(in Attenborough voiceover whisper) *he has, instead, angered it...*
Me: No. No I'm not. I'm normally talking about my sausage toes or my cankles. I'm not too bothered about my bum.
Mr G: Yeah, you do, earlier you said you had blancmange thi..... 1
(still in Attenborough voice over whisper, with a sense of finality) *... nature takes its course.*
The moral of the story: no good can come from checking your reflection in a lift mirror.
The outcome from this encounter: Mr G owes me some sparkly rocks.
1I absolutely, 100%, did NOT say this!