Apres-Ski for the Win!

After the highs of being back home in February, March was always going to have to work a bit harder to compete. Luckily, London finally shook off the Beast from the East (thank God—my poor skin couldn’t take another week of it) and I had a ski trip booked to Andorra to keep things interesting. It became a month of new rituals, frozen eyelashes, bold lipsticks, and a whole lot of bubbles, both on and off the slopes. Between the glamour of ski chalets, the chaos of London brunches, and the quiet joy of seeing daffodils push through the grey, it felt like a season starting to shift—not just outside, but inside me too.

Ski Bunny Vibes (Sort Of).

Now, confession: I’m not much of a skier. We never really did it growing up. My family were more beaches and BBQs than chairlifts and chalets. The only family ski trip I half-remember was to Ruapehu—and even that memory was repressed until Mum reminded me of the incident. Long story short: Dad decided to take me off-piste in search of thrills, launched himself straight into a crevasse, knocked himself out, smashed a hip, and left me, eight years old, running down the mountain screaming for help. The man literally had to be airlifted off and spent the rest of the holiday high on painkillers in Auckland. Traumatising. No wonder I conveniently erased it from my memory.

Fast forward to my twenties: my ex dragged me snowboarding in Bansko with a group of friends. I was hopeless—falling every three minutes, bruises all over my bum, swearing at the T-bars—but I loved it. Or maybe I just loved the après-ski and spa days. Both valid. It was all about the oversized sunglasses, Aperol spritz in hand, and feeling vaguely like a ski bunny even if the reality was me waddling awkwardly across the snow.

So when the chance came up for Andorra, I was in. Flying into Toulouse at night, driving into the mountains with the stars glittering overhead, the snow starting to fall as we climbed higher—it was all very Instagrammable. By the time we reached our hotel, I was already picturing the obligatory chalet selfie: goggles pushed back, flushed cheeks, messy hair under a beanie, red lip clinging on for dear life. My Auckland friends texted: Jess, you’re so glam now. If only they could see the bruises.

And honestly? The skiing itself didn’t matter. I did a few runs, fell over a lot, drank cocktails on the mountain, and spent way too much money on hot chocolates that came with whipped cream bigger than my head. At one point, a snow squall blew in and turned everything completely white. Cue mild panic because I suddenly couldn’t see anyone (or anything for that matter) and had a full two minutes of “this is how I die.” Then the clouds cleared, the DJ started blasting Calvin Harris from a mountaintop bar, and I was back sipping bubbles in the sun, goggles on my head like a wannabe influencer.

Après-ski is its own culture. Picture fire pits, faux-fur throws, glasses of bubbles, and everyone somehow looking chic in thermals. It made me laugh—back home, après-anything is usually a Speights at a beach bar in jandals. Here I was, in a padded onesie that made me feel like a marshmallow, pretending I was Carrie Bradshaw on a mountain.

Oscar provided the entertainment on the final day. While the rest of us were happily tipsy and throwing ourselves down the slope like pros (or at least like people who’d had two glasses of Prosecco), he was still pizza-ing his way down at snail speed. It took him half an hour to reach the bottom, clinging to the mountain like a goat. When I asked if he was okay, he just panted: “Yeah, fuck off Jess.” 

Charming. 

London Life in Between.

Back in London, March was all about brunches, blowouts, and pretending I didn’t spend all my money in Andorra. Brunch has become my love language here—pancakes at The Breakfast Club, avo toast at Granger & Co, bottomless prosecco at Megan’s (dangerous, don’t recommend unless you want to lose your Saturday). London brunch culture is such a production compared to home. In Auckland, brunch is eggs, coffee, done. Here it’s a full event: flat lays, outfit planning, debating serums over poached eggs, and someone inevitably lying on the floor for the perfect shot of pancakes.

There’s also a subtle competitiveness to it here—what bag you bring, what shade of lipstick you’re wearing, who got their blow-dry that morning. My Kiwi friends would find it ridiculous, but I’m starting to love the theatre of it. I used to think weekly blow-dries were excessive, but now I get it. Blow-dries have become an actual line in my budget - they’re addictive.  Walking out of the salon with bouncy hair makes you feel like you could conquer the Tube, the commute, and an entire client meeting without breaking a sweat. 

Nights out were a mixed bag too: a friend’s birthday in Shoreditch (very cool, very edgy, very much me in the wrong shoes), a spontaneous Friday in Soho that started with “just one” and ended in tequila, glitter, and a very grim Saturday morning. Balance, right?

My Auckland self in a messy bun might be horrified, but my London self is thriving.  Back in Auckland, my “hair routine” was a messy bun and maybe a spritz of sea salt spray. Now? I own a round brush. Growth.  Even the ritual of sitting in the chair, sipping a coffee, and flicking through Vogue feels like therapy.

Beauty Notes.

Skincare-wise, my poor face is still recovering from the Beast from the East. I’ve doubled down on hydrating serums, slathered on moisturiser, and even splurged on a Cowshed facial. Pricey, but worth every penny. My flatmate and I now do sheet-mask-and-wine nights weekly. Two women in PJs, green goop on our faces, Sauvignon Blanc in hand, gossiping about men and moisturisers—it’s basically therapy.

Makeup has become armour. A bold berry lip is my current obsession—it makes me look alive even when I feel like death after a night out in Soho. Back in New Zealand, I would’ve felt overdressed rocking a red lip to brunch. In London? It’s practically mandatory. And nails—gel manicures have officially entered my routine. No more chipped polish at brunch. I’ve crossed over. Also, I’ve realised that perfume is a thing here. London women always smell incredible. I’ve found myself spritzing Jo Malone like I can afford it (spoiler: I cannot).

Small Joys.

March also brought the first daffodils, lighter evenings, and those little signs of spring that make you believe you might actually survive winter. I’ve been filling my flat with candles, Zara Home finds, and way too many cookbooks I don’t actually use. It’s messy, lived-in, and feels like mine. That’s the biggest win this month—the feeling of belonging, even if it’s just in a small flat in Tooting Bec with wine glasses that never match. Back home, flats are all mismatched mugs and someone’s mum dropping off feijoas. Here, it’s Prosecco glasses and Diptyque candles. Both make me feel like me.

March’s Lesson.

This month reminded me that life doesn’t have to be polished to be good. Sometimes it’s a ski trip where you fall on your bum more than you glide. Sometimes it’s brunch with girlfriends where you spend more time taking photos of coffee than drinking it. Sometimes it’s a blow-dry that makes you feel unstoppable, even if your bank balance says otherwise.

Messy, funny, slightly tipsy, a little bit bougie—but real. And maybe that’s exactly how I want my twenties in London to feel. A little Kiwi casualness, a little London glam, and a whole lot of stories I’ll never forget.

Jess x