The make up counter people are known for their haughty, knowitallness. To this day, a grown ass woman, I scurry into MAC, nervous and jumpy. Furtively check the goodies, make no eye contact, get my stuff and am off. This process is perfectly civilized in the States, order your foundation, studiofix, powder, lipstick what have you online, no people to suffer through. It’s agony to go makeup shopping in India. I skitter into the store and half yell, “I’m just here for the Ruby Woo.” It’s a stun technique I’ve perfected to stop the buzzing, can I help you store staff in EVERY SINGLE STORE IN INDIA. No I don’t want a makeover or make under. If I have to suffer through a dude peddling that stuff, my annoyance ratchets up to full I need a glass of wine stat!!
Before anyone’s mind accuses me of some idiotic revserse sexism, that’s not the case. I hate being pestered but by male make-up artists in particular, for invariably, this 25 some old-purple lipstick wearing-eyebrows carefully drawn in and filled like Liz Taylor will call me, “honey”, or “doll” or “sweetie”. My eyes roll so far back into my eye sockets, I feel like I’m one of those little girls at Lourdes seeing angels and crap.
I have to give it up to them, while their “art” leans heavily to very drag, male makeup artists are way better at make up application than the girls, they, at the very least start with a clean shaved face. God knows how much spackle they must need to have such preternatural looking skin. There are certain professions, in my seemingly narrow, bigoted and anti women mind, when a hairy face are not the best. Make up artist? This is one of them.
I know we’re living in a time when hair, facial, pubic and armpit is celebrated but I grew up in the 80s where all except my closest friend Jessie were blond and marble skinned. Well, that’s how I remember it. While Jessie was simply a brunette, I was unfortunately also blessed with copious black hair and was horrified my mother wouldn’t let me wax off that fast becoming a full on moustache. So I did what any 13 year old growing up in Bloomfield, NJ would do, I stole some hair removal cream from Woolworths. In the bathroom with a broken and always on high radiator ( a product of our landlord’s ire for complaining about low heat output) I slathered on the contraband cream. The radiator hissed and sputtered as the distinct chemical smell of depilatory cream eating my flesh filled the bathroom Nearly burned my entire lip off.. I hate to say this, but that’s really one less thing we need, more men taking over any more real estate. I’m sure some squirrely scientist is working on men being viable vessel for a child. So hey, lady make up artists at the MAC counter…please do me a favor?
God I just can’t complete that sentence. I am an intolerant old lady. A pox is upon me for sure! What’s to become of me? I know I’ll be cursed to live in hell with one giant goat hair growing from my chin and no tweezer to be seen. Like some bizarre Sisyphus ordeal..