Yesterday, I ventured into the dark, grimy bowels of Sephora to whip my sad and scrappy makeup bag into something socially acceptable.
If you have a penis, you should know that Sephora is an upscale makeup store. You’re welcome.
I don’t like Sephora. I try to avoid going there as much as possible. While the makeup itself is enough to make me orgasm on entry, I simply can’t stand the black suit saleswomen getting up in my grill about whether I’m using a good primer before I put on my foundation. I don’t like their insinuation that I should use the makeup they like to use, and I don’t like the pressure of being talked to.
Also, all of them sort of look like whore clowns.
I’ve been trying to avoid shopping in Sephora for a long time now and as a result have bounced around to several different department store makeup brands trying to find things that stop small children from screaming bloody horror when they see my face and that stay on all day long.
My face has needs. Real needs.
I would avoid the store entirely and shop online, but I can only do that to refill something I already know I like. I can’t ever get a new color or a new brand because without the luxury of sampling, there’s no way to know if the super expensive makeup I’m about to buy is actually going to bring me any sort of shallow, material happiness.
Seeing as how I used to work at Victoria’s Secret – the ultimate in black suit pressure saleswomen – you’d think I’d be able to the Sephora challenge. But I can’t. I’m just awful at it. I spend most of my time discreetly moving from one color to another without looking like I’m actually interested in what I’m looking at. A face that shows interest is a face that shows weakness. So I casually swipe a bit of a sample onto my finger, mosey over to the mirror, and try to look casual about painting my face. It’s quick and odd – like when I try to check my armpits for a suspicious odor. I pretend I’m doing something else altogether, but the trained eye is incredibly aware.
My casual ruse was almost foiled by my inability to locate the disposal bin for the samples. I had all the eye shadow sticks, square wipes, and gloss applicators I could possibly hope for but not one single trash can in sight. Everything blends in there. It’s all black, white, and bright lights. People shouldn’t even be allowed to drive for at least 15 minutes after they leave.
So, unable to find a garbage can for all the pieces of used makeup wipes in my hands and with each of my fingers entirely coated in a different makeup color from my ‘casual swiping’ as I moseyed by the products, I resolved to continue to feign disinterest and certainty and promptly shoved all the wipes into my purse. Heaven forbid I ask where the garbage can is and get asked what kind of airbrush foundation I’m using.
In case you’re interested, the answer is none – airbrushed makeup is for whore clowns.
I eventually emerged from the innards of the elitist makeup shop with my mental sanity (almost entirely) in tact. I also somehow acquired twice as many products and I initially entered for. Which is a bit of a quandary, seeing as how not a single person approached me during my browse.
I would have felt badly about my terrible display of self-control if I hadn’t gotten a free sample of mascara that blew my mind and a free bottle of super yummy-smelling body wash because it’s my birthday month. Those little bits of pleasure made the price tag of my purchases not even noticeable until I got home, at which time I wallowed in self-despair. I tried to make myself feel better by painting my face with my new makeup, but it mixed my tears to produce a sort of awkward-girl-upset-that-she’s-not-prom-queen look.
I’m now one day past my initial buyer’s regret and the feeling is not subsiding. I should have known better. I should have stayed away. But hey – lesson learned. …Again. Shop Sephora online or don’t shop it at all. It looks like I’ll be replacing my makeup with the same exact colors and brands for several years to come.
I’ll need some time to muster up the strength again. ♣Today’s RAK: Mailing a thoughtful gift to someone I’ve only just met for an hour.