February 1997 compulsion by Leslie Harpold |
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
The Premise
For reasons I won't go into, I recently found myself completely without any
beauty products. No lotion, mascara, soap, not even a runaway lipstick.
So, the time came when I had to replace it all. Now, I gave some thought
to just buying a bar of oatmeal soap, and a copy of The Beauty
Myth and taking a stand against the corporate machine that processes
women's bodies and self esteem like so much hamburger meat, but then I
realized that I wasn't willing to forego the feeling of Nars King
Kong lipstick - a rich red-brown with copper highlights (that makes
Chanel's Vamp look chaste) gliding over my lips and instilling that
rented "who's laughing now" feeling. It's a cheap thrill, but it's mine.
A great secret of women is that makeup costs pretty much the same wherever
you go. So, I like to have the most sumptuous experience possible. I knew
I was going to be dropping a small bundle, because I needed the works, from
eyeliner to a "skin care regime" and I decided since I had the chance to
start fresh, I would look into trying something new. Ordinarily I would
head to M.A.C., but my last experience there had me leaving the store
looking like a drag queen, and when it comes to beauty, once bitten, twice
shy. Maybe the RuPaul as spokesmodel thing was being taken too seriously
by the salesperson who waited on me.
I went to Barney's. A very chi chi upscale NYC department store, kind of a
Bergdorf Goodman for the hipster set. I clomped around the makeup counters
until a counter girl started talking to me, and as soon as she learned of
my purchasing aspirations she said "Wait, you need everything?" I was
sure she realized just how vulnerable I was at the moment and I started
checking for the exits.
Enter José
She had mercy. If I was going to start from scratch, she thought it would
be a good idea to meet with José, the head of the department and the chief
makeup artist, who had no loyalty to any brand and the most likely to make
unbiased suggestions, and get a full makeover in a private room upstairs
(which appealed to me, if you've ever seen the ladies in the makeup aisle
getting painted up looking all foolish.) Free pampering. I'll take it!
I came back an hour later and a man with the best skin I had ever seen
escorted me up to a room overflowing with makeup, a chick's bathroom to the
extreme. We talked about blemishes, and the Internet - we had the same ISP
so I knew he understood me as a person, and all the usual chit chat
and in an hour and a half, I emerged with a list of things to buy and a new
attitude. I actually looked better than I remembered looking, possibly
ever. I felt completely different. Dutifully I returned downstairs to buy
everything. Not really free, in the long run.
Hope in a Jar
I have always known in my rational mind that's what they are selling. The
miracle ingredients, the colored glass bottles, the smelly runny stuff that
when used regularly will transform you. I respected that the
philosophy line of cosmetics is intentionally marketed at those
jaded by the consumer beauty products market. To read the booklet that
outlines the line, it seems that the woman who started the line found
herself weighted down by corporate dogma, and decided to break free and
find her own path. She is never named directly, which leaves room to
believe, that like Bartles and Jaymes, this is a mere front for a larger
ugly machine, but I choose actively not to believe this. Here's why.
It's good Stuff
So, I don't care. I like to read the booklet, I like a makeup company
telling me it has a mission statement about beauty being something that
isn't age, color or gender sensitive, and I like a company that calls a
spade a spade.
This is what I knew I was buying all along, and at least now I could stop
pretending. I can forgive that they have, in their line a fragrance for
cats and dogs, even, which you may not realize is a huge stretch for me,
because the pared down packaging and inspirational but sparse copy touch
that girly part of me that really wants to believe in Cinderella and the
transformation myth. Because the products have names like "real purity"
and "windows on the soul" and the colors are soft and believable. Because
my skin looks almost as good as José's now. All that hype makes the
wizened consumer feel like they are in on some sort of secret, a great
anti-marketing play that works for me. I didn't convert wholly, I still
have my loyalties to Shu Umera powder and Molton-Brown eye rescue, but the
rest of me has been sold. My favorite bit of packaging is the lipstick:
Hey, before you go ballistic about me having a smart mouth and whatnot, cut
me some slack. Almost every chick has an inner girly girl that hates to
take out the trash and kill bugs, no matter how much of a badass we are
most of the time.
back to the junk drawer
|
|
·feature·
·net worth·
·bumping uglies·
·smoking jacket·
·ear candy·
·feed hollywood·
·target audience·
·three dollar bill·
·compulsion·
·posedown·
·the biswick files·
·mystery date·
·and such and such·
·blab·
·kissing booth·
·contents·
·freakshow·
·fan club·
·junk drawer·
copyright © 1996, 1997 smug.com