My neighbor-friend Jane wears a lovely shade of lipstick, a Clinique brand with “black” in the name. Not the Black Honey in the Almost Lipstick line, but something else. I have admired her lip shade for some time, so this afternoon when I found myself traveling very near a store with a Clinique counter, I stopped by.
I was in the process of trying out different lipstick shades, having determined the black-something my friend uses to be too dark for me. For those of you unfamiliar with the process of sampling lipstick, you don’t actually put the samples on your lips after a hundred other people have sampled them. You dab them on the back of your hand to check the color. Just so you know.
I was interrupted by a violinist I know who happened by, and she told me all about what Small Town’s library looked like in the 1940s in such a way that I felt as if I were there, with creaking floors and every section in a different room, with actual old-maid librarians who shushed you when you disturbed the peace and who knew every book on the shelves. I’ll spare you the details of how our conversation led down that meandering path, but as soon as the violinist left, I was nabbed, and nabbed good.
The white-coat wearing woman at the Clinique counter saw me coming, I’m afraid, and she set out to help me find just the right shade of lipstick. I told her I prefer neutral shades, so she chose a bronzish one, along with the black honey Almost Lipstick because I mentioned how much I like that, and some lip liner. Then she sat me down in the make-over chair and went to work.
Before I knew what had happened to me, I was wearing the lip liner and bronze stuff—and possibly even some of the black honey—and then I was wearing a brand new kind of foundation that has lots of bells and whistles—spf 30, anti-aging whatsit and eye of newt, or something along those lines. And then this woman spun me toward the mirror to see the miracle she had created.
Should I have fought her salesmanship, or said no thank you to everything but the lipstick? Possibly, but when someone, especially someone with a lovely Indian accent, sits beside you and talks admiringly about your smooth skin with so few wrinkles and your lovely salt-and-pepper hair that should never be colored and the “chic” cut you have chosen for that salt-and-pepper hair and how well your new makeup matches your coloring, what are you to do?
So, I got sucked in, and I walked away from that counter carrying $71 worth of gunk in a little plastic bag. Darn that neighbor for looking so nice in her Clinique wear, and darn that violinist for leaving me prey to the master saleswoman in the white coat. Now the trick is going to be not getting sucked in even further to this Clinique system, or before I know it, a big truck will pull up into my driveway with a full load and a massive bill.
Comments
I do faithfully exfoliate and moisturize so the search for the perfect lotion is never-ending - no alcohol, no scent, no grease.
And speaking of scent, there are so many lovely perfumes, which could possibly be the *right one,* leaving a trail of enamored males staring at my luxuriously proportioned bottom as I walk away?
I work part-time for a company that hires a lot of retired and/or nerdy people. When I look around the room, ir surprises me to see how many of the women have just relinquished themselves to time - neuter clothes, haircuts, etc. I made up my mind to make certain it did not happen to me. I do not walk into that room unless I've taken care to wear something attractive, put on blusher and lipstick, and combed my hair.
Time to end this rant.