Guess who the latest honourees on my shitlist are?
Young, pretty, well-groomed guys behind the counter at MAC, that’s whom.
I’ve watched these style mavens on TV and I know some of them have impeccable taste in makeup, colours and all that good stuff I was born genetically deficient in.
I stepped to the counter wanting to replace my lip glosses. The same damn colours for 2 years. I needed a bloody change, some retail therapy, make me beautiful goddamit!
I wanted to say: “I’ve been feeling pretty haggard, preparing to become my own boss in a few short weeks. My hair’s been falling a little at the front from the stress and I haven’t been as diligent with my waxing. I’m ashamed to admit that I’m afraid of becoming the bearded, balding, boobied freak in my family. Make me the object of every man’s desire, give me the face that men will launch a thousand ships for and kill each other like frenzied baboons. Make me beautiful, dammit!”
Instead, I asked sheepishly if they have plum-tinted lipgloss. He took one look at my cracked, dry, uneven coloured lips. My rheumy eyes, my dry hair. Then he rolled his eyes. I’ve offended every god of beauty and beauty products. I felt so ashamed. I sized him up and figured I could jump over the counter and smear his foundation before I knock him out.
See how un-beautiful even my thoughts have become.
He struts to the back, comes back holding something I didn’t ask for, thinks deeply about some foundation/pressed powder ethical dilemma and breathes out in exasperated pity: “I would go with a little deeper colour. Something with a reddish undertone.”
I just nodded. I needed to be home, put on my SpongeBob slippers, make myself a cup of cocoa and mourn my dreams of becoming a Victoria’s Secret model. The most I can model now is a pair of Midas tires.
Sigh.
Young, pretty, well-groomed men of the world, I am sending you bad skin, fat middles, and corduroy pants thoughts.
