No, I don't mean I've got one. I've just seen my first real-life trout pout. Normally, I don't move in circles where women inject themselves with botulism but today at the hairdresser's, surrounded by an adoring audience of stylist, tea boy and towel girl, there was a definite trout pout in the next chair to mine.
Sadly, the owner couldn't have been any more than 30. I thought the word 'trout' as an insult was usually preceded by 'old' - or is 30 old in today's yoof culchur? I can't say the trout pout did much for this woman. Nor did the dye job, which looked to be the texture of straw and was a shade of yellow not normally seen in nature. Put me in mind of newsreels from the old Soviet Union, where you could at least explain bad dye jobs because women had limited access to beauty aids.
So let's get this right: breeding and nurture give a woman in the wealthy southside of Glasgow a lovely figure and an attractive sweetheart-shaped face. Daddy - or hubby - give her designer clothes, bag, boots, etc. And all she can think to do to 'improve' on what she's got is puff her lips up and ruin her hair.
Personally, I'd have sent her to elocution classes in her pursuit of perfection. That might have eradicated the high-pitched, slightly strident and definitely grating Newton Mearns drawl. Oh, and maybe a wee spell at school or college might have helped raise her conversation above the level of 'so then we watched X Factor and had a bottle of Cava'.
So I noticed her but I don't imagine I even registered on her radar despite having to ask her to move her large Mulberry handbag off my seat. Being a woman over 50, I'm used to wearing a cloak of invisibility. Trout Pout will have to get used to it as well. I only hope she has developed a personality and a few interests by then. Or maybe a good divorce lawyer will be enough to keep her in botox and dye jobs.
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