Is Brisbane ready for Trinny and Susannah’s visit?

I don’t for a moment sug­gest Aus­tralians lack style and dress sense, it’s just that the task ahead of them is, well, over­whelm­ing weather-wise.
Their exper­tise is not in ques­tion.
I have gaped in won­der as Trinny, with her hot potato accent, mer­rily rips jeans off per­fect strangers in Amer­i­can malls. I have gaped at Susannah’s sheer cheek as, quite with­out ran­cour or ret­ri­bu­tion, she tells middle-aged women they look like a tent look­ing for a cir­cus.
And oh, the trans­for­ma­tions. Dowdy, grey women have become cur­va­ceous, sexy, down­right foxy, ladies under their expert eyes. Frumpy 30-somethings stride out with new-found vigour, resplen­dent in their sweep­ing trench coats, jaunty silk scarves and pants that skim, dahling, skim.
I have gaped as podgy 50-somethings sud­denly dis­cover they have cur­va­ceous calves when newly pedi­cured feet are lev­ered from sen­si­ble walk­ing shoes and slipped sen­su­ously into slen­der, strappy heels.
At the style icons’ com­mand, beauty experts have tweezed and trans­formed.
Their team of hair wiz­ards have coloured, foiled and snipped tired locks to silky per­fec­tion. Their mag­i­cal touch of style has known no bounds.
Trinny and Susan­nah have reached the pin­na­cle of suc­cess – endorsed by Oprah, feted by the rich and famous, adored by mil­lions. But have they ever tack­led the Queens­land heat? I beg of you, Trinny and Susan­nah, you have not a moment to waist, sorry, waste.
Watch and learn when you see the heat melt the bitu­men and observe women of all shapes and sizes let style slide in the pur­suit of cool­ness. I ask that you not observe from the false com­fort of shop­ping cen­tres, get out there where the real peo­ple are.
When tem­per­a­tures soar, you will wit­ness that a sin­glet and shorts are all the most self-respecting woman can muster. A dress must skim, not for style, but for fear of its fab­ric stick­ing to the sweat that accu­mu­lates under the bust and slow-trickles from bra to knick­ers.
Not for me hello mamma knick­ers up to my armpits. I see the virtues of lift­ing saggy arse, smooth­ing cel­lulite and cre­at­ing clean lines. I accept the impor­tance they play in cre­at­ing the great illu­sion of style.
And yet, I break out into a sweat at the thought of their suf­fo­cat­ing syn­thetic full­ness – let me hang loose!
And how I long to burn my bra.
I know silk-stockinged legs are sexy and sleek. But oh, Susan­nah, for fear of expir­ing, I must leave mine exposed and freck­led. Instead of sexy heels, I opt for com­fort­able and cool flats.
The heat, Trinny, is a great lev­eller. Have you ever tried walk­ing in heels in the humid­ity? Ever found your toes splayed, mak­ing a bid for free­dom as they slide on their slip­pery soles?
As for flabby upper arms, there’s just nowhere to hide. The not-so-taut tum and bum are also there for all to see in a relent­less quest for sweat con­trol.
I think not of the nubile young things – fine for them the strappy, barely there dresses, exposed, plump and bronzed midriffs – youth cov­ers a mul­ti­tude of sins. I speak of those who have just sneaked past their prime – no longer resem­bling plump fruit but more like a nec­tarine left a tad too long in the fruit bowl.
I speak of hair that’s damp and list­less, or frizzes in the wrong places. And have you ever encoun­tered hat hair, Susan­nah? Have your tresses ever stuck to your head in a sweaty halo?
And Trinny, what advice do you have for the sweat-beaded upper lip, the make-up that slips off one’s face in a smudge not unlike a mini mud slide?
I shall await your arrival with freshly tweezed brows, buffed heels and bated breath. Pick me! Pick me!

© Copy­right 2008 Lois Nicholls