Photo: Rex 


How to (not) be a beach goddess

Spag-bol-covered kaftans, dry shampoo and a stubborn chin hair – Stacey Duguid hits the beach 

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By Stacey Duguid on

I barely registered the innocuous tweet read hours before boarding an easyJet flight to a Lucifer-hot Ibiza, so God only knows why it played on my mind for the entire flight. “How to be a beach goddess” it read – I mean, shit, I hadn’t even managed to file my nails and could feel my pubes sticking out at odd angles beneath my giant pants. How the fuck does one obtain beach-goddess status, I pondered, as the six-year-old dropped his tin of Pokémon cards for the 20th time in as many minutes and the four-year-old’s crisp packet exploded like a bomb.

Surely goddesses have shit-hot hair? That’s me out; the only thick hair growing on my body is around my fanny and on my chin. As for conditioners with sunscreen, or washing my “locks” in shampoo containing glittery golden bits ‘that reflect rays of sunlight’, I end up looking like I’ve had a fight with a frying pan. Greasy, limp hair isn’t very goddess (I heart you, Batiste) and, anyway, I’m way more concerned by the fact my dyed-red hair turns a shit shade of peach after only two days on the beach. Three cans of red colour mousse and dozens of white hotel towels covered in red dye later, my boyfriend took one look at the state of the bathroom and declared, in his best Glaswegian accent, “THERE’S BEEN A MURRRRRRDER.”

In my rush to have my bikini line trimmed, I now realise letting a random near my vagina was a mistake (see also the whole of the 90s)

One thing I do know is beach goddesses probably don’t have pubes growing down their thighs. In my rush to have my bikini line trimmed, I now realise letting a random near my vagina was a mistake (see also the whole of the 90s). Inexperienced, she ripped, tugged and pulled at my skin, leaving half the hair where it should have been smooth. Squeezing in-growing hairs, screaming, “Arrrrrgh, my faaaaaaaany,” poolside isn’t all that “goddess-y”. I also forgot my tweezers, so ended up shaving my chin on the last night of our holiday. Pure sexy-goddess overload…

Obviously, a true beach goddess possesses an array of fabulous jingly-jangly jewellery that clitter-clatters as she moves silky, tanned limbs. I saw many women doing this look. And that’s fine, as long as you’re willing to spend 25 minutes untangling neck-tat from the hair of a passing child, who, because he’s your child and therefore the clumsiest six-year-old boy on the planet, managed to entangle himself around your neck like a tuna caught in a trawler. I don’t recommend you mime “I need a pair of scissors to cut my son’s hair” to a Spanish waiter after sinking a bottle of rosé. Mum’s a bit pissed, eh?  

Beach goddesses need VERY expensive kaftans – see Laura Craik’s piece for details. I, on the other hand, haven’t yet succumbed to the expensive-kaftan phenomenon, and doubt I ever will. If you’ve ever tried removing spaghetti Bolognese sauce from white cotton, you’ll understand why. It’s physically impossible to remove – a sea of bleach couldn’t get that shit out. I bought a fab selection of not-particularly-goddess-like dresses from Topshop and, after five layers of fake tan and a few beers, felt great. Cheers!

Which brings me nicely on to tanning. If you’re super-pale, like me, and only “tan” in red stripes, like you have some kind of dreadful rash, in order to obtain a beach-goddess tan you’ll need several tubs of the fake stuff. I lathered myself in the Lancôme, Clarins and Boots’ No. 7 daily tanning moisturiser every five minutes. When combined with the red-mousse residue, it was a pretty bad scene. Watch your feet – it’s not very goddess-y, looking like you’ve accidentally stepped in a donkey plop and forgotten to clean between your toes.

If all else fails, you could make like a beach goddess in some colourful, pom-pom-festooned sandals. Or, do as I did – buy them, get pissed off with tripping over an assortment of bells, shells and ribbon, and resort back to wearing ye old Berkies that go with everything. Oh well, I tried. At least I think I did; I never did click on that tweet, which is a good thing, probably. Beach goddess, my arse.

Stacey's strictly non-beach goddess edit:






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Photo: Rex 
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