Doomed to be ungroomed

There are some women who ooze class and sophistication. But I am not one of them.

I know a French PR in Dubai who is always immaculately turned out, looking chic and stylish to the point that I didn't notice her cleverly disguised baby bump even when she was about eight months pregnant.

I am envious. Though I aspire to be an elegant lady, in reality, I bite my nails until they are jagged-edged stumps, fall every time I wear heels and have toothpaste stains on my dresses. In short, I am a shambles.

It appears an easy enough problem to solve — I should go for more manicures and pedicures, wear clean and ironed clothes, brush my hair and learn how to walk on heels.

But even when I plan, down to the smallest detail, what I am to wear and how I should conduct myself, I only end up making a bigger fool of myself.

I believe the gene that governs the sense of grooming is missing in many girls who hail from London and its surrounding area (in my case, a field in the middle of rural Suffolk).

We lack the Parisian flair for dressing, the stylish ease of the New Yorker and the Italian quality of waking up every morning with bouncy, shiny hair.

We cover up our innate untidiness and general air of grubbiness with “quirky'' fashion looks and “just-out-of-bed'' hair.

But the fact of the matter is that I usually have just got out of bed and look like I live in a skip. I put this down to the fact that I grew up wearing wellington boots and mackintoshes.

I don't even know how to blow-dry my hair properly and am the only girl I know who doesn't own a pair of GHDs.

My idea of making an effort for a night out is to have a shower and put on some fake tan. I might even repaint my toenails if the event calls for a special touch.

I realise I need help but there is a catch. The more effort you put into style, the more seriously you have to take yourself.

You don't get women who have perfect eyebrows, own brand-new Louboutins and get salon blow-dries getting their heels stuck in escalators, leaving fake-tan marks on their white dresses or having a sudden attack of hiccups halfway through dinner.

All of these happen to me with startling regularity.

The way I see it is that I wasn't meant to be chic. It's a tough reality to accept but I will always be the girl who has smudged eyeliner in every photo, the one whose high heels break midway through the night and who, thus, has to walk around barefoot for the rest of the evening.

I will also always be the girl who accidentally throws the contents of her bag across the floor on a night out and has to scrabble around trying to retrieve it all.

But whether like it or not, some of us are meant to be “down-to-earth'' girls. This is a kind of backhanded compliment, which means we'll never find out the secret to becoming that elusive creature, The Lady.

I guess some of us were destined to be girls playing at being women.