After picking up supplies for my Jewelry 1 class and a set of pretty, blue curtains so I’m not blinded every morning, I casually mentioned to my aunt that I don’t own nor have I ever worn makeup. Mildred, the generous woman she apparently is, offered to take me over to get the basics.
We were minding our own business, wandering the displays of brightly colored cosmetics, when the over enthusiastic sales person pounced, asking if there was anything she could help with. Mildred admitted that being from London, she wasn’t familiar with several of the brands available and inquired what the woman recommended for me, a teenage girl that knows squat about makeup. She worded it nicer.
It was like commission dollar signs overtook the woman’s eyes a laLooney Toons, and I was quickly shuffled into this ridiculously uncomfortable chair, and I’m pretty sure the sales person has barely stopped talking long enough to breathe.
“Your niece has such amazing skin!” she exclaims. The pin on her shirt states her name is Sharon. “Oh to be young again, right?”
If my skin is so amazing, why are you covering it in goo?
“Mmm, yes,” my aunt replies politely, one arm folded over her chest and one hand curled against her mouth. Her brown eyes definitely look like she’s laughing at me.
“Oh my god,” Sharon gushes while rapidly sponging my face, “your accent is amazing! British people always sound so sophisticated. I wish I had an accent. You know, I had a cousin that spent a summer in England and she came back with an accent.”
So she’s pretentious?
My aunt nods and hums a noncommittal noise. She raises a single blonde brow, and I know I’m not alone in my thoughts.
“Anyway, this CC cream is really popular with girls your niece’s age, because it’s great at evening out any blotches or redness, but isn’t heavy enough to cause breakouts,” Sharon continues her spiel. “And it also includes a built in moisturizer and a SPF 35 sunblock. Can’t start too early when it comes to skin care.”
I don’t have blotches, redness, or acne, and I’ve literally had my skin burned off and grow back. Why am I wearing this?
I shoot ahelp meface at Mildred when the sales person turns to grab some other thing to slather on my face, but she pretends to not understand.So mean!
After the CC cream, there’s concealer under my eyes, finishing powder, contouring my “amazing” cheekbones, then blush. Now, I’m at the base not looking like I’m wearing makeup phase.Huh?
“She has such a unique eye color, I think a dramatic look would be really fun,” Sharon proclaims to my aunt while penciling my eyebrows in, like I can’t hear her and might have an opinion. “I mean, definitely get a palette of neutral tones too, but this is the time to experiment, right? Have some fun and express yourself.”
I expressly wish this would end. All I wanted was some eyeliner, mascara, and maybe a tube of lipstick.
She doesn’t wait for an answer, more thinking out loud apparently, than wanting some kind of permission. “Now a nice charcoal and a light silver around the eye with a deep plum feathered from the crease is going to look amazing! Follow that with a dramatic wing, and wow, boys will be tripping over each other to get to this little model.”
She did not just say-- wasn’t she just talking about expressing myself?
Sharon continues to talk about the cosmetics and the company that makes it.Cruelty free, that’s nice.For the most part she sounds like the teacher fromPeanuts.There’s talk of needing to get a set of brushes and sponges. Something about getting a lipstick palette will be better than individual tubes to have variety to experiment with, and I guess, a lot of these kits also come with small tutorial books.Well, that’ll be useful.
As Sharon works, there’s a growing stack of cosmetics on the counter that an oh-so-helpful second sales person is gathering. Every time she suggests or mentions something, out pops a fresh box added to the pile. By the time we’re done, I have a Mt Everest size collection of cosmetics and a giant red tote that’s apparently free because of the outrageous amount of money we’re about to drop on the makeup mountain.
“I don’t really need all this stuff,” I whisper to my aunt while the saleswomen gleefully ring everything up.
“It’s fine,” she murmurs back, running a hand along my hair with a smile. I don’t flinch, which I consider a victory. “I like getting you these things, and who knows, you might want all this in the future.”
She has a point, I suppose. I don’t have any interest now, but I’m still trying to figure out who I am. Maybe future Callie will like all this stuff.
Once we’re out of earshot of the manic makeup people, I pull out my phone and use the selfie feature to look at my face.
“I look like a drag queen,” I grumble, taking a picture and group texting it to the guys, because I feel this horror needs to be shared with others.
Mildred laughs. “You don’t look like a drag queen.”
I stare up at her and point at my face. “Do you see these eyebrows and all the crap on my eyes? Drag queen.”
“You look like a teenage girl with a little too much makeup on,” she reasons, shifting the large Bloomingdale's bag from one hand to the other.
“A little?” I reply sardonically. “I think my head is literally harder to hold up under the additional weight.” My aunt’s makeup is subtle with soft beiges for eyeshadow, just enough eyeliner to accent her eyes, and a nude lipstick. I beseech her, “Your makeup looks nice. Can you teach me how to do it like that?”
Her smile turns soft and she nods. “I’d be happy to, darling.”
My phone starts to buzz with replies.
