Do Not Go to the Mirror
Mutton or Lamb?
I’m older, not old, that’s for 90-year-olds. And the woman in the mirror is not me. I sucked in my cheeks, elevated my chin and pulled up my eyelids. Then I went to Sephora and walked out looking like mutton dressed as lamb, thanks to a make-up lesson that took almost an hour. I was fidgeting after the first five minutes, which is longer than I’ve ever spent putting stuff on my face.
Despite my face not being able to breathe with all the Bondo filler on (remember that scene in Absolutely Fabulous when Patsy has to hold open her lips to smoke the ciggie because she had too much Botox?), I bought all the products, to the tune of $450. Why can’t there be one cleanser for your face and mascara? Why do I need moisturizer for my face and another for my eyes and another to slather on my wrinkles at night? And what’s the point of outlining lips with a lip pencil before filling it in with lipstick? What was I thinking? Obviously, I’ve been duped by the cosmetics industry.
The next day, I attempted to duplicate the Sephora gal’s technique. Clearly, I should have taken notes—or even better, a video—when she applied everything, because I couldn’t remember if the concealer (more Bondo) came before or after the blush, nor could I recall which tool to use for it. And I have to return the foundation because I can’t open it to reveal the squirty thingy. I bet the cosmetics industry designs some stuff on purpose just so you’ll go back and buy more stuff. Gawd, it’s turned me into a conspiracy theorist.
I couldn’t apply eyeliner without my glasses so I just made do with eyebrow pencil and mascara: the latter I removed immediately when I noticed my eyes were bloodshot. And don’t get me started on hair. Sheesh. My hairdresser’s exorbitant fees are up there with the plumber and electrician. After an agonizing three hours putting a few strands in tinfoil so blonde streaks look “natural with the grey”, I look like a corporate lawyer because of the way she blow-dried my curls (real) straight. I looked in the mirror and wondered if these “improvements” (after parting with $300) were really me.
So, here’s the big question: whether to “age gracefully” or “don’t look your age”. I have to be careful with the latter, because it’s a fine line from disguising your age to looking like mutton dressed up as lamb, a common expression in England directed at women of a certain age. Case in point: My pal Joanne and I were shopping for clothes. I tried on a short skirt and asked her opinion. “Mutton”. Even though my legs are my best feature (I’ve been told), I bought a skirt that fell just above my ankles. Then I tried on a skimpy dress. Joanne told me my legs are fine, but spaghetti straps are for kids as will be short sleeves sometime soon, when that crepe skin sinks in.
Perhaps it was time to revisit my wardrobe and apply the Marie Kondo method to my clothes. I started with shoes, all the high heels I hadn’t worn in years, mainly because my feet had grown wider, almost in sync with the drooping eyelids. (Full disclosure: heels widened my feet, AKA bunion.) I made two piles: the dozen or so designer shoes my younger friends can peruse, and the other thirty-odd pairs to the SallyAnn. Believe me, stuffing them into empty suitcases (no more travelling with checked bags) was gut-wrenching. Then I moved on to sleeveless dresses and short skirts, last worn in the mid-1970s.
Fuck it, I sorted everything out one last time – some heels and mini-skirts made it back to my wardrobe, maybe never to see the light of day. But you never know…
I've been a make-up artist for photographers (actor's headshots, mostly and some film work), and an esthetician for over 30 years. You do not need all that stuff. At Sephora, you were made to feel you needed all that stuff, and in the moment you gave in and parted with all that money. Most of us have been there, including me.
Here's something: Your skin is covered in micro-biome, which includes all kinds of fungi and bacteria. People have been told that you need multiple step routines to get rid of "dirt" and "grime" and to "unclog pores." The truth is, when you OVER wash your skin and do too much fiddling with all those products, you create imbalance. All the acids and added alcohol to creams and potions and toner is killing off beneficial bacteria. Remember douching? Who does that anymore? Think of the bad advice women got about douching when you think of the skincare industry. The beauty industry is what a grifter might call "a long con"... they've been working on you since you were a little girl.
You can wash your face gently with a wash cloth (no scrubbing) and warm water. If you wore a bunch of make-up that day (you only need a tinted sunscreen, some natural colored blush, an neutral eyeshadow, mascara and light lip color at the very most, concealer if you feel fancy) you can use a gentle cleanser. If you use Retin-A or something with retinols, only twice a week! Wear sunscreen during the day and wear hats.
You don't need more than one face cream for moisture, unless you count the tinted moisturizer, which I count as "make-up." I use a cream with simple ingredients, no parabens, not tested on animals. Jurlique is a good example. If you feel dry, add some organic jojoba oil to your cream, it's so affordable and does the trick. Think of all the plastic waste the beauty industry dumps out each year. Think about the money you spend. Take that money and put it in a high interest earning CD. There's my professional opinion.
Great article. All of us over ** can relate. When I worked in the corporate world I used to toss a lot of my makeup and go new every year. I’m now at an age where I can prove that all those expensive creams for eyes and jowls do not make a mm of difference. Just to the wallet. The last makeover I went to was a couple of years ago. While she buffed and polished and applied, I wasn’t allowed to see until she was finished. A couple colleagues walked by. “Nice!” they said. I’m sure I could hear them giggle all the way to the lunch room. Finally the big reveal. She whipped that chair around so fast I almost needed a seat belt. I looked in the mirror and saw a drag queen only with a lot more drag. The cosmetologist was so happy. I was dumb struck. “You need to make plans for tonight,” she said. I was mortified. Speechless! It truly was ghastly. I drove home with one hand over the lower part of my face. Walked in the door and made a beeline for the washroom. “How’d it go?” my husband said from the other room. It was going to take some scrubbing. And he wasn’t going to see this car wreck. I took a picture. Just as a reminder. Rather than look like an actor in Bird Cage, I prefer to be invisible.