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Or at least, that’s how it feels to me.
I let out a wail of disappointment. Hot Guy releases me, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “It’s no big deal. It’s only makeup.”
“Only makeup?” I repeat, turning to him in disbelief. “ONLY MAKEUP? Are you serious right now?” I don’t even wait for him to reply before demanding: “I didn’t just buy those from the drugstore, I made them, from scratch! Do you even know how long I’ve scrimped, and saved, and slathered anti-aging foundation on blue-rinsed ladies to afford to make those lipsticks? Do you realize what I’ve sacrificed, to try and make this happen? My entire family thinks I’m crazy!” I cry. “‘Move back home, Callie,’ ‘Come work at the salon again, Callie.’ ‘You’re wasting your most fertile years, Callie,’” I mimic my mom and older sisters’ familiar refrain. “But you wouldn’t understand anything about sacrifice, would you, Mr. Fancy Pants, with your designer clothes and brand-new phone, and antique watch?”
He takes a step back, surprised. “Since when is this my fault?”
I put my hands on my hips, mostly to keep myself from smacking his annoyingly well-formed chest. “Since you just don’t get it! Most of us can’t whip out our platinum Amex when something goes wrong. We’re here busting our butts, trying to build a business and make our dreams come true. Until some rich jackass comes along and smashes months of hard labor in a few seconds, and all he can think to say is, “No big deal!’”
I pause for breath, panting. And that’s when I realize: people are staring. At me. In horror. Like I just went dumpster diving again. But this time, I don’t even have my hard-won samples to take the edge off, just a slow, creeping embarrassment that starts to flush the back of my neck.
Hot Guy backs up again, looking at me warily. “Look, I’m sorry, OK. For… Whatever it is you have going on. The offer stands to replace your stuff.” He thrusts a business card into my hand and then backs away, palms up.
My anger drains away as swiftly as it came. And then there’s a rumble, and the train departs, and I’m left standing there, empty-handed except for the guy’s card and my total embarrassment.
Clearly, it’s time to blend a new blush shade. Name: Utter Humiliation.
2
Callie
After my second major humiliation of the day (third, if you count the guy who catcalled me with ‘Getting real juicy these days’), I’m tempted to head straight back to my apartment to console myself with a tray of snacking cake and a Real Househusbands of New York marathon, but I’ve still got one more stop to make before I can truly wallow.
I hop off the train a couple of stops early, and walk over to the Eastside Women’s Center, a squat grey building parked on the end of the block.
“Hi, Suze!” I call, as I buzz into the front lobby. The day manager looks up from her stack of paperwork and gives me a small nod. I grin. Suze is six-feet-tall, gray-haired, and made of stern stuff, but I know her kryptonite. “How’s Terry?” I ask, and sure enough, she lights up.
“He’s doing so great,” she coos. “I took him to the zoo yesterday, and he went crazy for the sloths.”
“I hope you got pictures.”
“Of course I did!” Suze whips out her phone, and shows me the full album… Of her prize Chihuahua, Terry, out on the town.
“You spoil that dog,” I laugh, scrolling through.
“No shame in that!” Suze eyes my backpack. “More goodies for the closet?”
“I scored at work today,” I beam. “Delivery screwed up and gave us a box of bad packaging. I’ve got Fenty for days.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Suze says, “But go ahead.”
I make my way through the lobby and into the center. It’s a great space: A community hub and halfway house, offering classes, counselling, and all kinds of support to women in the neighborhood. I’ve been volunteering here all year, ever since Fleishman’s sponsored a fundraising drive, and I got to see the place up close. Since then, I’ve been helping out with what they need and also with my own special project, what I like to call The Closet of Dreams…
“Hey ladies,” I greet some of the patrons as I enter the room. It used to be a neglected boxy room on the second floor before I got my hands on it. Now, it’s a brightly colored lounge full of donated clothing, toiletries, and—yes—makeup, where the women can find outfits for job interviews, pick up some goodies, and have a moment of pampering just for them.
“Hi Callie,” the chorus goes up. I recognize some familiar faces, and soon everyone is picking over the new makeup donations and getting caught up on my not-so-big break pitch.
“I guess I’m going to have to change strategy,” I say, fixing one woman’s eyeshadow for a date tonight. “Luxury stores are just too snooty to take a risk.”
“You need to get on TikTok,” Tara suggests. “My kid sees something on there, and boom, she’s begging to buy it.”
“Or have one of those influencers promote you,” someone else agrees.
“I was just thinking that!” I exclaim. “It’s risky, sending out free products, but I feel like, the minute they use the lipsticks, they’ll be convinced.”
“I know I was,” Tara laughs. “Speaking of… Any more of that glossy pink?” she bats her eyelashes at me.
“Soon,” I promise. I started donating my test shades here, and before I knew it, the patrons became my best, most honest focus group. “How was the texture on the last batch?”
