Something happens to me when I shop in Hunt Valley, an exclusive Baltimore suburb, sporting upscale boutiques and salons. I feel prosperous and self-indugent, and spend more money than I should. It would behoove me to limit my time there. In my defense, since my hair stylist moved to a salon in this location, I have no choice but to frequent Hunt Valley every six weeks or so. The problem is, after a long, luxuriant shampoo, head massage, cut and blow-dry; my very core screams for high-end cosmetics. Screams.
On this occasion, however; I made the lethal mistake of saying ‘yes’ to The. Dreaded. Makeover. Deep within the throes of The Dreaded Makeover, where makeup is removed in public and every pore, wrinkle, undereye shadow and unfortunately-placed facial hair is laid bare; one is as emotionally vulnerable as one gets. If one is a woman, that is.
The chirpy, bright and perfectly-made-up cosmetician made a few inquiries, matched my skin tone, told me I had beautiful skin, and why did I ever think I should wear the totally heavy and inappropriate makeup that I had on when I came in? Whatever possessed me to assume – who lied to me – to assess my skin as deserving such a heavy blanket of makeup that (gasp) actually covers it?
I am thinking, isn’t that what makeup is supposed to do? No? When did things change?
By the time she finishes talking, I am convinced, perched uncomfortably on the high, black-and-chrome stool in front of a large mirror; that I should never wear makeup again, and if I do, it should be transparent.
“Oh my goodness!” she gushes when my makeup is removed. “I prefer this face to the one you had on when you walked in! I really do!” I am vulnerable, naked-faced, uncertain. So I mumble something asinine like, “You really think so?”
Who is she kidding, and what has possessed me to believe her?
This is the power of The Dreaded Makeover. Geared to lure the unsuspecting – the aged, the
And, I have to admit, when she hands me the mirror after dibbing and dabbing me with multiple brushes; I do look pretty good. We spend several minutes appreciating her efforts, my face, and various makeup products.
By this time, I am in such a dither over the compliments and attention, I purchase one of everything plus the brushes. I even hug her and tease that I feel so encouraged I should do a makeover ever week! I feel feminine and radiant as I walk to the counter to pay, like a tiny sun goddess has graced my face and her golden radiance blesses everyone that has the good fortune to look upon my countenance.
As I leave ULTA, everyone waves a cheery good-bye. They are acting like my new best friends. And they should, after I spent that much money on makeup!
My new face and I, after sticker shock recedes, have an intense chat on the way home and decide it was worth it.