An Early Christmas
I usually don’t write about beauty stuff on this blog, but I am kind of giddy right now. This morning, I went to an event for one of the publications I write for—the opening of the renovated Sephora store in Times Square—and was handed a $1,000 gift card.
“Wait, are you serious?” I asked the PR girl who gave it to me.
“Yes,” she said, smiling.
“Holy shit!” I practically shouted. Then my cheap, anxious self stepped in. “Do I have to spend it all right now?” Because I knew that if I hoarded it, I could keep myself in Lancome mascara, Laura Mercier lip plumping gloss, and Shiseido Benefiance Day Cream for many years. After nine months writing weekly beauty stories, they are the only fancy products I’ve adopted into my regular routine.
“We’d really rather you spend it all right now,” one of the PR girls hosting the event said, her smile waning.
My first thought was that there wasn’t a chance in hell I could spend that money in the 30 minutes I was allotted. Then I started walking around the store.
I think it’s fair to give a little background about my own beauty story. Basically, my mom taught me how to shave my legs with a Bic razor; condition my eyelashes with Vaseline; crimp my hair by braiding it wet, and nothing more. She doesn’t really wear make-up, especially not as she’s gotten older, and she didn’t pass down the habit to me.
In high school, I figured out that wearing black eyeliner and mascara with a touch of bronze eyeshadow somehow made me feel prettier, and I haven’t changed my make-up routine since. I use my fingers instead of brushes. At times, when I’ve had the money, I’ve added a lip tint or a peach blush to the look. Whenever it runs out, I take years to re-stock it. I have a make-up palette from MAC that I bought at a gift sale on Nordstrom my senior year of high school, which I still use. The skin on my face, as a result, is probably a thriving metropolis of mold and bacteria.
Although I might have liked to use nice products, I never could justify the expense. The truth of the matter is, I am lower middle class. I’m a fucking freelance writer. For many years, in graduate school, I lived just above the poverty line. It may look like I have a nice life on the outside, but it’s mostly because I take really, really good care of my things, and I don’t buy anything superfluous. I only date rich men (kidding…um). I shop at Old Navy. I wear my shoes until they get holes in them, and then I keep on wearing them until it starts snowing. Then I wear rubber boots. “Don’t I pay you enough that you don’t have to wear shoes with holes in them?” a boss once asked me.
“Not really,” I told him.
I bought my bike, which I use as my primary mode of transportation, for $200. I rode it every day, despite it’s many flaws, for 5 years. The only reason why I got a new bike for my birthday was because Caleb had to borrow it a few months ago to run an errand. My old bike weighed 65 pounds. None of the gears worked. The left pedal was chronically loose, which means that whenever I pedaled, my foot would pop on every rotation. By the time I got the new bike, I had only one brake left, and that brake only worked with the aid of my dragging feet. “I had to get off and walk it,” Caleb said, when he got home. “How the hell do you ride that thing into the city all of the time?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just do it.”
In high school, my sister stole me make-up—Cover Girl mascara, Cover Girl eyeliner—from the drugstore. When I went to college, I started buying it for myself. I wash my hair with classic Pantene Pro-V, which I occasionally switch out with Dove products. I use Olay SPF moisturizing lotion. My hair dryer, it is from 1998.
I always wanted really nice products. Everyone else around me had them. In high school, the average girl wore Mac make-up and got a nose job for her bar mitzvah. In college, most of my roommates had dressers full of Chanel make-up. Even Caleb had nicer products than me when we first moved in together. For the first month, before they ran out, I luxuriated in his Japanese sunscreens and organic shampoos. Then, realizing that I was an expense burden, he started shopping with me at Duane Reade. On my budget, I can’t even really afford to drink wine at bars, nevermind buy a $20 lipstick.
I started writing beauty stories because they pay almost unfairly well, and because I really like the editor who assigns them to me. I am not a beauty expert. The first story I turned in to her was a disaster. I was afraid she would never speak to me again, but miraculously, she did. Over the past year, she’s sent me to more and more events for stories. It’s come to the point where sometimes, I even recognize people at them.
By osmosis, I’ve learned a lot about the products that are out there right now, and not just the make-up ones. I am something of a connoisseur of BB Cream, for example, the latest skin product to come in from Asia. I got legitimately excited when NARS announced an Andy Warhol collection. I know which whitening treatments work immediately, and which take a few weeks. I finally know what mousse does to your hair.
It’s a satisfying thing, learning an industry you knew nothing about, and never intended on researching. Slowly, I’ve become fluid enough that I can actually pitch stories rather than scrambling to figure out an assignment. I know how to ask questions with expertise. I finally let a hair stylist dye my hair on Monday—a dark brown with hints of copper—which I’ve been putting off for years, because I didn’t want to budget for hair treatments. She was a gorgeous German, and she works for Schwarzkopf. “SCHWARZKOPF!” she never screamed. I am very, very pleased with how it turned out.
Like most things, the beauty industry is 95% bullshit. I am very skeptical of it. Even so, I’ve learned that there are some good products. Which is why, after initially thinking that I could never find $1000 of stuff I want at Sephora, I began to realize that the money would be spent very easily.
After putting every eyeshadow pencil from the NARS Andy Warhol collection in my basket—they are thick and easy to apply, which makes them idiot proof—I began texting friends. “What do you want from Sephora?” I asked them.
Then I noticed the “Debbie Harry” eyeshadow palette from NARS, which I put in my basket. Next, it was the Lancome make-up remover I’ve always wanted to use, because it smells so good, and costs so much. I’ve never washed my face with anything but the Dove “beauty bar,” which dries me out so much that if I don’t put moisturizer on right after the shower, I start itching my face like a crack addict.
I put the Lancome in my basket, as an early Christmas present for me.
Next to the make-up remover was the Lancome eyelash conditioner my mother used during what I like to call “the fat years,” when my dad was a big time bond trader. I put it in the basket for her, and checked her off my gift list.
By the time I left the tiny corner of the store where all of this was located, I had six different eyeshadow sticks, a tinted moisturizer, three Dolce & Gabanna eyeliners, a YSL concealer stick, a NARS “orgasmic” blush, and a hot pink lip pencil from Make-up Forever.
Keep in mind that I have so many make-up samples in my apartment from past events that Caleb threatened to make me move into the hall closet with them. The problem is that none of them were ever catered specifically to my skin, or my taste. In Sephora, I was finally able to choose the products that were right for me.
I filled up one basket in under 10 minutes. The store clerks, watching me, quickly came forth with another. “Are you having fun?” one of them asked.
“It’s like Christmas!” I said. “In fact, I don’t even need to have Christmas after this!”
I spotted fake eyelashes—I snagged three different pairs, all in varying shades of drag queen. I saw Bumble & Bumble sea salt spray, and thought it would be perfect for Sadie Lady’s hair. I tried to think of gifts to buy other people, but kept on getting distracted. A metallic purple eyeliner stick! A fancy tweezer! A blush brush! Rosebud lip balm! Dr. Jart BB cream! A fucking pencil sharpener to replace the one that’s so old that whenever I touch it, I end up with streaks of old eyeliner all over my clothing. I knew what it all was! I wanted it! I could have it.
“Maybe you should focus less on yourself, and more on other people,” I briefly thought. So I bought some hand cream for Caleb.
“Maybe you really should save the gift card, and use it later to buy what you need,” I briefly thought. Then I saw the Issey Miyake perfume I’ve been dying to own since my teenage years.
“FUCK IT!” I said while I considered whether or not I really NEEDED red sparkly nail polish. “This is the only time in your life besides that one time you bought those Tara Subkoff for Easy Spirit boots that you’ve ever been really reckless with your spending!”
The more I put in my basket, the more my spirit elevated. “Can we be friends?” I wanted to ask the shop clerk who helped me with men’s cologne.
“You look fabulous in black,” I wanted to tell the queen who helped me pick out a body cream.
“Did you know this was happening?” I asked the lady at the register, when I was ready to check out. “That they were going to give us all this money?”
“No,” she said warily. “I think they wanted to surprise you.”
By the time she made it through the first basket, she was already up to $600. I knew that before she made it through the second, I was going to have to make some difficult decisions. Some shameful decisions.
Because for all of my good intentions—using the money to buy other people gifts—when it came down to it, the first things that were dropped to stay under the $1000 limit were those I picked out for friends and family. Choosing between a “factory silver” NARS pencil and a spa treatment for my Aunt Peggy was an easy call. I chose the NARS pencil. Choosing between “Hello Kitty” stick-on nails for my sisters and an odd shade of pink lacquer for me was an easy decision. I chose the lacquer. Choosing between the only thing Caleb asked me to get for him—Bliss eye cream—and a gigantic bottle of defying Philosophy body cream was an easy decision. I chose the body cream.
Checking out took almost as long as shopping did, with all of the wrangling and substituting. By the time I decided on a final cachet, my tab ran at $1,002.73. I put the $1,000 on the gift card, and the rest on my AmEx. Big spender.
On my way out, I had to push through the gigantic crowd that had gathered for the opening. Some people, said one of the PR girls, had been standing there since 3am. “For this?” I asked her, quizzically. Because besides the sheen of everything being, in essence, free for me, the store looked like any other Sephora I had ever been to.
I made it a block out of the store before I began to feel sick about my decisions. “You should have bought more stuff for your sisters, you loser,” I thought. The dominant part of my brain—the cheap part—began to berate my carefree mood. “You’re an idiot. You didn’t even get what you wanted. You don’t need three shades of purple eyeshadow. None of that stuff will even look good on you.”
By the time I reached the subway, my mood was entirely deflated. I was tempted to take the train to another, more anonymous Sephora, and return everything I had bought, so that I could replace it with things for other people.
“Do you really think you needed Josie Maran nail polish remover?” I asked myself. “That cost fucking $9??”
I furrowed my brow and began audibly berating myself. It’s something I do frequently. “Idiot,” I said. “You think you’re so smart. Everyone knows. Your ex-boyfriend knows. Your ex-boss who fired you knows. Your dad knows.”
“Excuse me,” said the lady standing next to me on the platform.
I turned to her, expecting her to tell me to shut the fuck up.
“Did you just go to the new Sephora store?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Oh, how did you get in?” she said. “I got an email that it was opening, so I went early this morning, but the line was already too long for me to wait. I have to go to class.”
“Oh man, that sucks,” I said. “I actually got in before it opened because I write stories about beauty.”
“That’s so cool,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. It was one of those enlightening moments you read about in a Mitch Albom book, when you suddenly realize how lucky you are. I never think it’s cool that I’m a beauty writer. In fact, most people seem to feel embarrassed for me when I tell them about it. “So you’re a commercial writer?” many a colleague has asked me.
“What’s your name?” she said. “Maybe I can read some of your stuff.”
I told her, and then wrote it down on a piece of paper. “Cool,” she said. When the subway arrived, we sat together.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Daisy,” she said.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a student, I’m studying gerontology,” she said. “But I really want to go to beauty school.”
I started to stay something about following your passions, but I didn’t want to sound condescending. “Hey,” I said instead. “Do you want this like VIP card I got after the event?”
To thank me for spending $1000 of their money, Sephora had enrolled me in their superior club, or something. As a bonus, I had received 10% off all future purchases, as well as a free 45-minute make-up consultation.
“It has some cool perks, I think,” I said. Briefly, I thought that I should probably have given it to one of my friends, but Daisy seemed like she was someone who would really appreciate it.
“Thanks so much,” she said, not at all effusively. But I could tell that she was excited.
“No problem,” I said. I briefly thought about handing over my entire bag to her, but the Debbie Harry eyeshadow palette warned me against it.
At West 4th street, we parted ways, more than likely never to meet again. When I got home, I spread my bounty on my bed, and felt, for a short time, entirely gleeful again.
