I went to a makeup class this weekend. I finally fucking learned how to line my eyes! I am so proud of myself I can’t even tell you. For years, I have wanted to line my eyes. I have tried at home and failed. I end up looking like I’ve previously had a stroke and am trying to use makeup again. It is all over my fucking eyelids. Then they showed me how to use a cake of eyeliner, a little brush and stamp it into the base of your lashes et voilà! Seer has the eyes of a stranger. I can do it on the top of my lashes now with some success, too. I think in two days I’ll be a pro at it.
See, I never learned how to wear makeup. My mom isn’t a girly girl, either, and she didn’t let me experiment. I can understand why she was protective: little girls don’t know that old creeps look at them they way that they do. But I never learned even in the house how to play with makeup, so even today at 33 I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
We noticed the ladies had on a lot of makeup, though the line they were representing was a “fresh-faced,” easy on the facepaint kind of line. I think estheticians and makeup people kind of lose perspective after a little while on what is a light look. They all look put together, don’t get me wrong, but when I’ve gone over to a friend’s house who I love dearly who is in that industry, I have never, ever seen her without her face on. She has even said she could never afford to work in any other industry anymore because of the discount she gets on her cosmetics. No wait: I have one friend who doesn’t. This is the friend who will wax your vajayjay as a return favor if you do something really out of your way for her. She does not wear hella warpaint to the corner store.
They loved my Cruella deVille eyebrows, by the way. I have a feeling it’s part of their strategy to find one thing they think is pretty about every lady there and compliment her on it. For me, it was just my brows that day. I got mad compliments on them, from a couple of the ladies and from the guy who was also a female impersonator. “I love the shape of your brows!” He was the one who really sang the praises of foundation primer. Apparently, if you’re a drag queen, don’t go on stage without it. I’ll keep that in mind, dude. No, but it’s what’s supposed to keep my makeup from sliding off my fucking greasy face. If it really does, then hallelujah.
The class was supposed to cost fifty bucks, then thirty if we got five people, and we would get that money back in product. It turned out they comped us, but it didn’t matter: we dropped crazy cash. In our group we had two brides-to-be who bought everything that was suggested. I didn’t, even though the soft sell was kind of hard. “Let’s go over all the things we tried today. Here’s a pen and a highlighter. Are you sure you don’t want the deep-sea water? It’s got magic properties and unicorn pee! What about the moisturizer? It’s blended on the thighs of mermaids! The secret concealer makes your breasts perkier!” Okay, it wasn’t that hard a sell, but it was a little aggressive.
So what does a buck fifty (that is, $150) in cosmetics look like? POW!
Yup. That’s all I got. It looks pretty measly. Sparrow gave me her eyeliner cake because it really doesn’t work on her. I’m returning my concealer and the brush for it because I don’t like it. I have to use so much before it covers up my spots that I look patchy. I like Benefit’s boing better.
I noticed after the class I carried myself differently, though. I had on eye makeup, which I never wear. I usually wear red lipstick and call it a day. There was something about knowing I had on more makeup that made me feel I could look at people differently, hold their gaze longer, and feel they were perceiving me differently. I was not just a woman, but a girl, a real live one. Eyes of a stranger.