Melissa Doyle’s had a makeover. And she looks amazing. But really, why is ‘mumsy’ the worst thing a woman can be?
“Who are you calling Mumsy?” screamed the newspaper’s front page at me yesterday, as I passed by pushing a pram, a four-year-old ramming my heels with her scooter.
Mumsy, me?
I stopped. A blonde ice queen in a shoulder-shrug-coat glared back at me. Oh, no, definitely not mumsy... Wait, what? Was that Melissa Doyle?
Yes. It was. And she looked freaking amazing. She had a bit of extra hair going on, which is always a short-cut to photo shoot glamour (note to self: more hair). She looked like she's been heading to pilates in the morning since leaving Sunrise instead of sitting at the desk, shuffling papers with Kochie, and she'd been styled to within an inch of her life by professionals who knew what they were doing.
Gorgeous. Woah, Mel...
I pushed on. But hold on a minute. Why was Melissa Doyle, talented, attractive, smart journalist with more than 20 years experience under her belt, so desperate to announce that she is not 'mumsy'?
And what the hell is 'mumsy', anyway?
Look, it's not cool to admit this, but I've always loved Melissa Doyle. The old Mel n' Kochie double act was a regular fixture in my lounge room before Peppa Pig finally kicked the adults off my morning television for good.
I liked Mel because she was straight-up, smart and nice. The 'nice' thing is often used against her, but seriously - another moment where I display my non-coolness - what's wrong with being nice? She didn't flirt, or simper. She knew what she was talking about. She always looked great, slick and professional, and, call me a sucker, but I always bought into her and Kochie's on-air friendship. They gave good TV.