I had made an appointment weeks ago, high on the smell of 1000 perfumes at the Lancome counter in Macy’s, to go to their national event and have my makeup professionally done. I had never done this (I am not counting the time I was 14 and the 17 year old girl at the Sears makeup counter (Remember when they had a makeup counter!? Remember when they were still kind of a real ~department store~?) did it. That does not count.), and I thought it might be fun. It was today.
The gentleman’s name was Michael and he was adorable and maybe twenty and was wearing more makeup than I had ever worn in my life. He was usually ‘the brow guy’ (his brows were PERFECT), but they called him in to do makeup since they were so busy. He asked me a lot of questions about what I wanted and what I usually do, which would have been great if he had listened to any of my answers.
“Well, usually I just wear tinted moisturizer because I get really greasy and shiny during the day and I don’t want to jack up my pores any more than they already are...”
“Okay. Let’s use this foundation and this concealer and this…”
“Well, I really don’t like to wear mascara that makes my eyelashes longer because I have pretty long lashes already and I wear glasses…”
“Okay. We’re going to use this lengthening mascara…”
‘We’. He said ‘we’ a lot. “He is a professional”, I thought. “No big deal. Let him do his job.”
So I left and it looked great and I went to the movies (‘One Day’. I wish it had been called ‘Five Minutes’ so as to expedite the film. It blew.) After the movie, I went to the bathroom and there it was. My oily forehead. Black lines on the inside of my glasses.
So I dabbed and I BARTed home and walked to Walgreens. I walked because my car is broken.
2 weeks ago, my car was making this aggressive squeaking noise. “TAKE CARE OF ME. YOU HAVEN’T CHANGED MY OIL IN LIKE A YEAR, YOU STUPID GIRL,” I swear is what it sounded like. And then the left turn signal stopped working, and it the rapid clicking I could hear “NOT GOING TO FIX ME? FINE. I’M TAKING YOU WITH ME.” So I took it to Midas.
“So I need an oil change and my left turn signal isn’t working and it’s making this ‘EEEEEEEEEEEE’ noise when I’m driving so if you could figure that out…”
“When you brake? It squeaks when you hit the brakes?”
“No. it brakes fine. It squeaks when I’m just driving down the road, foot on the gas.”
They called me a few hours later.
“We checked your brakes and you need to replace the brake pads and a rotor. Nothing’s wrong with your turn signal, it’s fine. It’ll be $500.”
I paid. “He is a professional”, I thought. “No big deal. Let him do his job.” My car still squeaks. My left turn signal is still out. My brakes seem exactly the same.
At Walgreens, I bought Vogue and a bag of Doritos. I am not a fashionable lady by any stretch and I could say I bought Vogue because it’s the September issue and that documentary was really good, but really I just I wanted a professional to loudly, for 758 pages, tell me what to do and to crunchily, guilt-freely, ignore it.
