SARAH VINE: Oh no! It’s back to the tyranny of keeping up appearances 

All those weeks ago (and goodness, it feels like an age) at the start of the lockdown I, like many women, found myself going through a kind of cold turkey.

The weekly visits to the hairdresser, the monthly waxing sessions, the eyebrow threading, the manicures, pedicures and massages I used to enjoy regularly, the occasional facial — it all came to a shuddering halt.

Even the osteopath and dentist were off limits, not to mention the odd sneaky drop of Botox I never used to admit to but realise I had rather come to rely on now that my mummy frown has firmly reasserted itself.

To begin with, I felt bereft. 

My girlfriends and I would Zoom almost nightly, bemoaning the slow encroachment of grey hairs, the reappearance of lines and bags kept at bay by regular beauty appointments, the slackening of skin and muscles as the sessions with personal trainers receded.

We became mildly obsessed with home hair dyes and DIY facials, sharing product tips.

But after a few weeks, the whole thing began to seem rather futile. 

Something about the level of human suffering caused by the pandemic, the daily, depressing death toll, the images of key workers weighed down by exhaustion and PPE.

Suddenly even mentioning those grey roots felt not only absurd, but distasteful in comparison with what people were going through.

I began to feel my increasingly threadbare appearance was, far from a concern, an outward expression of the anxiety that I and so many others were experiencing over the tragedy the nation was witnessing.

Not only that, I was saving a fortune. 

I felt rather ashamed of the sums I’d been spending on myself, all in pursuit of keeping up the glossy image I’d imagined was so vital. 

But with no parties or dinners to go to, what was the point?

Like a neglected garden, nature began to reassert herself, and I began to look what I actually am: a middle-aged mum of teenagers, not bad in certain lights but not the sort of person likely to mobilise a Greek army.

And the odd thing is, I’ve rather grown to like the new me. Not the eyebrows, I should stress: mine in their natural state make me look like my dad in drag.

Nor, if I’m honest, the lack of a pedicure, which has less to do with pretty nail polish and everything to do with not having the sort of feet that scare small children.

As for the rest — the hair, the nails, the skin, the waxing — I realise I can manage on my own, or at least with a much-reduced regime. 

But what I have enjoyed most about all this is the freedom it has afforded me from the tyranny of keeping up with the Sallys. 

Not just the endless appointments and vast expenditure; but also the fact I don’t have to compete with every other woman in a room.

Because, with the possible exception of Fiona Bruce and my colleague Susanna Reid, who have both sailed through lockdown looking as soignée as ever (good bones, those two) and the usual raft of celebrities (who don’t count), we’re all in the same boat. 

We all look a bit fuzzy around the edges.

Now that everything is opening up, the pressure will be on again. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m counting the days to my hair appointment. 

But part of me will miss this Wild Woman of the Woods period in my life, when all the so-called beauty rules went out the window.

When I didn’t judge my appearance by other people’s standards, but was, however briefly, happy in my own (slightly saggy) skin.

Eve’s true talent pro Bono 

It’s not always easy being the offspring of a famous parent and escaping their shadow. 

So all credit to Eve Hewson, daughter of Bono and his wife, Alison, for acknowledging the role her famous father played in opening doors in the acting world. 

‘Some of the friends I went to Tisch [performing arts school] with are the most talented actors but have found it difficult to get an audition,’ she told the Radio Times. 

‘That’s never been a problem for me, and I think that’s because of my family.’ 

She shouldn’t be so hard on herself: I’ve been watching her in new BBC drama The Luminaries, where she plays troubled heroine Anna Wetherell. 

Not only is she very beautiful, she’s possibly the only coherent thing about it. 

Rebekah Vardy and Coleen Rooney are taking their feud to the next level: Vardy has filed papers against Rooney at the High Court, suing her for defamation, libel and slander, with estimated costs of around £1 million. 

What a lot of nonsense. 

Why don’t they just agree never to darken each other’s door again and donate that money to charity? 

That way they might do some good — and save what remains of their reputations. 

Oh the irony of Premier League footballers supporting BLM, which openly states its intention, among other things, to ‘dismantle capitalism’. 

Where do they think the money that pays their inflated salaries comes from, if not the very system they claim to despise? 

 Teens need school, not a summer adrift

It’s frankly ridiculous that the Government is opening up pubs, hairdressers, shops and hotels but schools will remain closed until September. 

Not only should they re-open along with everything else, they should remain open during the summer to allow children to catch up. 

It makes sense from an academic point of view; it’s also vital from a social standpoint.

It’s not so bad for the little ones, who are safe at home with their parents; but for older children, teenagers in particular, the past three months have been potentially disastrous. 

Everywhere I go I see groups of kids drinking and smoking in parks, with no regard for social distancing, the unmistakable smell of marijuana filling the air.

Deprived of the guidance provided by school structures and teachers, how many 16-year-olds will not return in September, and instead embrace the worst of street culture and become lost to the lure of drugs and county lines gangs? 

Drug-related crime is up 27 per cent during the lockdown in England and Wales, and so-called ‘hippy crack’ canisters litter urban areas.

It doesn’t take a genius to see that, once again, it’s the most vulnerable youngsters, who need structure and discipline in their lives, that will suffer. 

The ones for whom education is often the only hope of a better future. Another ten weeks adrift is the last thing they need.

Prince Harry has become an excellent barometer by which to judge the stupidity of any given cause. 

Take his support for banning Swing Low, Sweet Chariot from rugby games: what more poignant reminder of the pain of slavery could there be than this stirring spiritual composed by a former slave himself, Wallace Willis? 

I don’t know what’s worse: that the Prince is too thick to see this; or that he peddles this woke nonsense just to please his Hollywood friends.

 A bar to the pub bore

 I note that punters wishing to pop in for a swift one at the Dog & Duck will have to register their intention in order to comply with Test and Trace. 

Even without coronavirus, this seems an excellent idea to me: all landlords would have to do is publish the guest list online and not only would it make people think twice about drink-driving — it would also mean the rest of us could avoid getting trapped by the pub bore.

Now we know what a real health threat looks like — coronavirus — can we stop issuing dire warnings about the perils of a bit of sunshine? 

We’ve had months of lockdown. I think the British people can be trusted to wear sunscreen. 

It’s very nice of the telly people to provide artificial crowd noise during football matches to make up for the lack of atmosphere — but it’s really not necessary. 

If my son’s excitement at the return of the beautiful game is anything to go by, the ear-splitting decibels emanating from sofas across the land are more than enough to replace the sound of a stadium of spectators. 

I never knew one boy could make so much noise! 

J.K. Rowling’s literary agency must be gutted that four of their authors have quit in protest over her comments about trans people. 

How on earth will they survive without blockbuster names Fox Fisher, Drew Davies and, of course, Ugla Stefanía Kristjönudóttir Jónsdóttir?