[life] painted hussies
I have flirted, in my wild and glamorous youth, with fashion and makeup and hair and all that high-maintenance crap. As I get older though, it becomes too much of a pain in the ass. I gussy up for special occasions and I think I clean up right nice, but I am not, nor will I ever be, That Girl.
You know, That Girl. That Girl with three shades of highlights in her shiny, bouncy hair, with a fresh manicure and a makeup job that looks airbrushed, it's so perfect. That Girl who goes around with That Look on her face that says, "I am the absolute pinnacle of fashion and grooming. Worship me!"
I just can't do it. It's not just the sheer amount of time staring at one's own face in the mirror from the distance of about three inches or so, or the way that you have to be constantly maintaining the look, never rubbing your eyes or scratching your cheek without whipping out a compact to check for structural damage, or even the exhausting pressure of keeping track of trends to stay one step ahead.
It's the expense.
I went shopping with a friend yesterday, and while we were waiting for some pictures to be developed, we stepped into a cosmetics store and for fun, had our makeup done. "I'll just prep your face for the makeup artist," says some manicured looking young thing, and proceeds to wipe my face with about five different substances, going on the whole time about moisture and ph balance and blending and colour correction in a self-important lisp until I was reduced to biting my lips to prevent a smirk from wrinkling her canvas. She finished with her fluids, tripped away and was replaced by a fried-blonde over-tanned woman in black whose face appeared to have been constructed over an existing substructure. Her eyebrows went where no eyebrows had gone before.
"What do you usually wear?" she asked me, in a tone that clearly indicated that whatever it was, it wasn't nearly enough.
"Uh, nothing usually. Sometimes some eyeshadow."
"Okay, we'll start with a moisturizing base."
Before I could protest that I'd already been moisturized within an inch of my face's life, she was dabbing and smoothing and wielding wedge shaped sponges all over the place. I submitted. Base, then concealer (apparently most of my face needed to be concealed) then something to make my skin "glow."
"What colours do you usually wear?"
Not having learned my lesson yet, I responded, "Oh, neutrals, browns, some greens. I'm not fond of pink."
She descended upon me again, brushes flashing. "Look up! Look down!" She jabbed me repeatedly in the eye with a mascara wand. "Try not to blink so much!" Sighing, she repaired her artwork with a q-tip. "There!"
She handed me a mirror and I stared into the face of horror. Pink cheeks, pink and purple eyelids, frosted glittery pink lips.
"It's kind of - pink," I commented.
"Look at all the colour in your face! You look so pretty!"
"Oh, I can see the colour."
I was impressed with the concealer, however. I have big blueish hollows under my eyes and with a sweep of a brush and dab of her thumb, they had vanished. I looked - well, pink, but also well rested and happy.
"I'll take the concealer," I conceded.
She whirled away to the cash register and rang up the sale. "That'll be $54.50."
The clang as my jaw hit the shiny white tiled floor was audible through the store. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Fifty-four dollars and fifty cents," she articulated, scorn apparent in every syllable.
"No, I really don't think so," I replied. "Thanks anyway."
My friend (who looked great in a sort of rose-gold colour scheme) bought an eyeshadow for 29 bucks and we escaped. "54 dollars," I said as we exited.
"It's really good makeup," said my friend.
"54 dollars," I repeated, trying to make it sound like something I could believe.
When I got home, I went into the bathroom and wiped most of the pink off. As I watched my face emerge from the layers of moisture and "glow," I came to a realization. Makeup is a hobby, just like model railway building and coin collecting. And like all hobbies, it has its high end products and its crazed enthusiasts. There are people out there willing to spend half a hundred bucks on 4 grams of coloured goop.
My blue under-eye circles emerged into the light and I paused for a moment. I did look tired. And older. But in the end, I just don't care all that much. I don't want to be That Girl. You know, That Girl with several thousand dollars worth of makeup, That Girl with the gorgeous shell and the consuming vanity and the empty ringing cavern where her self-worth should be.
I don't need to look in the mirror to know who I am.
You know, That Girl. That Girl with three shades of highlights in her shiny, bouncy hair, with a fresh manicure and a makeup job that looks airbrushed, it's so perfect. That Girl who goes around with That Look on her face that says, "I am the absolute pinnacle of fashion and grooming. Worship me!"
I just can't do it. It's not just the sheer amount of time staring at one's own face in the mirror from the distance of about three inches or so, or the way that you have to be constantly maintaining the look, never rubbing your eyes or scratching your cheek without whipping out a compact to check for structural damage, or even the exhausting pressure of keeping track of trends to stay one step ahead.
It's the expense.
I went shopping with a friend yesterday, and while we were waiting for some pictures to be developed, we stepped into a cosmetics store and for fun, had our makeup done. "I'll just prep your face for the makeup artist," says some manicured looking young thing, and proceeds to wipe my face with about five different substances, going on the whole time about moisture and ph balance and blending and colour correction in a self-important lisp until I was reduced to biting my lips to prevent a smirk from wrinkling her canvas. She finished with her fluids, tripped away and was replaced by a fried-blonde over-tanned woman in black whose face appeared to have been constructed over an existing substructure. Her eyebrows went where no eyebrows had gone before.
"What do you usually wear?" she asked me, in a tone that clearly indicated that whatever it was, it wasn't nearly enough.
"Uh, nothing usually. Sometimes some eyeshadow."
"Okay, we'll start with a moisturizing base."
Before I could protest that I'd already been moisturized within an inch of my face's life, she was dabbing and smoothing and wielding wedge shaped sponges all over the place. I submitted. Base, then concealer (apparently most of my face needed to be concealed) then something to make my skin "glow."
"What colours do you usually wear?"
Not having learned my lesson yet, I responded, "Oh, neutrals, browns, some greens. I'm not fond of pink."
She descended upon me again, brushes flashing. "Look up! Look down!" She jabbed me repeatedly in the eye with a mascara wand. "Try not to blink so much!" Sighing, she repaired her artwork with a q-tip. "There!"
She handed me a mirror and I stared into the face of horror. Pink cheeks, pink and purple eyelids, frosted glittery pink lips.
"It's kind of - pink," I commented.
"Look at all the colour in your face! You look so pretty!"
"Oh, I can see the colour."
I was impressed with the concealer, however. I have big blueish hollows under my eyes and with a sweep of a brush and dab of her thumb, they had vanished. I looked - well, pink, but also well rested and happy.
"I'll take the concealer," I conceded.
She whirled away to the cash register and rang up the sale. "That'll be $54.50."
The clang as my jaw hit the shiny white tiled floor was audible through the store. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Fifty-four dollars and fifty cents," she articulated, scorn apparent in every syllable.
"No, I really don't think so," I replied. "Thanks anyway."
My friend (who looked great in a sort of rose-gold colour scheme) bought an eyeshadow for 29 bucks and we escaped. "54 dollars," I said as we exited.
"It's really good makeup," said my friend.
"54 dollars," I repeated, trying to make it sound like something I could believe.
When I got home, I went into the bathroom and wiped most of the pink off. As I watched my face emerge from the layers of moisture and "glow," I came to a realization. Makeup is a hobby, just like model railway building and coin collecting. And like all hobbies, it has its high end products and its crazed enthusiasts. There are people out there willing to spend half a hundred bucks on 4 grams of coloured goop.
My blue under-eye circles emerged into the light and I paused for a moment. I did look tired. And older. But in the end, I just don't care all that much. I don't want to be That Girl. You know, That Girl with several thousand dollars worth of makeup, That Girl with the gorgeous shell and the consuming vanity and the empty ringing cavern where her self-worth should be.
I don't need to look in the mirror to know who I am.
posted by Karla Andrich at
1:43 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home