I needed to replace a lipstick and I went to the mall yesterday. I was thrilled to have a couple of hours available to myself just to wander around, although the local mall is mostly disappointing. I did need to stop in Macy's to replace a favorite lipstick (Chanel Sirocco) but they were out of stock. Still I am admittedly rather fond of lipstick and took the opportunity to look at other colors. I had noticed the sales representative when I asked for the desired shade, but really wasn't paying attention to her (mistake #1). She came over with two new colors, that she said would be lovely on me. She convinced me to try both on my hand, telling me that I really needed more warmth on my face and the colors I was wearing were all wrong for me. I liked the both, but I worried that one was a little two warm, it looked very orange in the glaring yellow light of the cosmetic counter, so I said I needed to go outside to look at them in the sun. I probably should have used this opportunity to escape, but I really did like both colors, she was right about the warmer one, and I will wear it with certain things, but the one with more pink is the one I will wear the most, so like a fool I went back.
I don't know what it is about the cosmetic counters that brings any lurking feelings of inferiority to the fore, but I should have seen it coming. I went back, and I tried to ignore the chatter about what the sales rep had for lunch; I wasn't really interested in whether she should drink a caffeinated diet soda on afternoon break or try diet green tea, or decaf soda. Apparently she is trying to get off caffeine (why?) but feels a slump in the afternoon (don't we all?). I don't know what it is about my face that makes me so approachable, that everyone I meet thinks they can just come right up and start telling me about the chicken mcnuggets they had for lunch and what-have you, it must be the wide silly smile and the big round cheeks, the hollow eyes. Really my smile is more like Ronald McDonald's than just about any chic elegant role model you can name.
And I suppose that is precisely the problem. It doesn't matter what I wear, and I've done the whole uptown-girl, polished thing, I just can't pull it off. As soon as I smile it is all over, and I always smile, or laugh, or (even worse) just plop myself down on the floor when there is no chair readily available. Whatever it is chic is not my number, but that doesn't mean that I am not secretly a little intimidated by those who seem polished and pulled together.
And I looked up at her face while she returned my credit card and I realized that she looked like she had replaced her head with a life-sized Barbie doll. Despite this, despite the fact that I would rather look like a person than a plastic doll, I left the mall thinking that the deep circles under my eyes were far to noticeable even as I acknowledged this was because they put the mirrors so low that you have to look down at them, all the better for seeing any sagging under the chin and bagging under the eyes. And although I started out thinking my new messy haircut with the wonderful layers was just perfect and cool and hip and I left thinking it was sad and messy, just as I was sad and messy. I was ready to go home and bury my sorrows in a vanilla latte. But I did not go home.
I went to another boutique, not in that mall, one where the lighting in the dressing rooms is much more flattering, to try on a blouse I had ordered. The blouse was awful. It looked great but it itched like crazy, I felt myself shrinking up inside trying to pull away from the fabric the instant I put it on, as if my skin was trying to withdraw into my body just to avoid contact with that fabric. I am not sensitive to wool or most things, but give me cheap silk organza, actually any kind of silk organza but the finest tightest weave, and it drives me crazy, just crazy. However I tried on a jacket that I saw in the store, and it was perfect. The style was perfect the fit was perfect, it made my hair look good again. In short that jacket was just right for me. Technically it is for the fall season, although I could have worn it out of the store yesterday and been perfectly comfortable.
By the time I got home I was myself again, and I knew that my intentionally mussed hair was perfect for me and my intentionally mussed personality and silly, wide-eyed smile. Sam and Tori greeted me at the door, and as I walked in the house, G rose from his chair and Moises came barrellling across the room and took a flying leap at my knees. I happily sank to to the floor and greeted my family and realized I had found perfection.
Comments
4 responses to “Terror in the makeup aisle”
Lovely!
The cosmetic counter is a place intended to trigger self-loathing, insecurity and feelings of inadequacy. Because of that I do try and stay clear unless I am feeling very strong. I worked for Lancome many years ago and knowing how I was trained to sell makes me very wary of the sales pitches from over-made up sales assistants.
Good for you for not keeping the colour that is not for you. And, congrats on the lovely new jacket!
I like this post so much, I had to write one in response — so honest, thank you!
To approach a cosmetic counter, you need self-esteem of steel. They depend on us feeling insecure, so we’ll buy a $135 cream, which we don’t need, besides the lipstick, which we might. But you found a wonderful jacket on your own! So trust your eye and your soul.