DAY 223: Pampering the shit out of my face

Now 90 per cent more pink.

CONTINUING my quest to become a real girl, I clatter off to a random make-up artist in Myer and bid her to do as she will.

Suzi eagerly sets about turning my face into an approximation of hers, layering on primer, foundation, concealer, three or four eye shadows, tinted eyebrow wax, mascara, bronzer, blush, lip pencil, pink lipstick and lipgloss. I do wear make-up every day, but that’s 10 products and 30 minutes more than I’m accustomed to.

A French artiste called André (actually, I can’t remember his name, but that’ll do) hovers the whole time, giving a running commentary on what Suzi’s doing and snatching brushes out of her tiny hands, replacing them with what he’d use if he was her. He laments my eyebrows, which are admittedly in need of a bit of a trim, practically wringing his hands in agitation.

I manage to block him out when Suzi does my eyes, as it’s very soothing. I get to pondering the word ‘pamper’ and how it’s become a ‘you deserve it’ kind of marketing tool aimed at the privileged. Golden goddess pamper pack. Pamper yourself stupid this pampering Pamperday. It’s a curious sounding word, so I look it up when I regain the use of my iPhone hand:

‘Pampe’ can be traced back to ancient religious manuscripts. As in: ‘Thus the devil fareth with men and wommen; First, he stirith hem to pappe and pampe her fleisch, desyrynge delicous metis and drynkis.’

Steady thyself!

Then there’s the Bavarian word, ‘pampfen’, meaning ‘to cram oneself with pap or broth’.

Mmm.

“Are you Dutch?” André interrupts my reverie. “You have very Dutch features: dark skin and green eyes.”

I’m unable to enquire as to whether he’s had a recent knock to the head with his hair straighteners, as Suzi is slicking something like Dunkin’ Donuts glaze on my mouth.

Now all I need to do is write a crime novel called Midnight’s Daughter and this can be the author photo on the jacket.

Glacial pink gloss, I venture as I peer in the mirror, is not appropriate for a 36-year-old woman. Suzi disagrees, and André gasps that it’s perfectly acceptable for a “woman of your age”. In fact, he reckons, I might even try mature modelling work.

“What, in a catalogue?” I quip.

“Yes,” he agrees earnestly. “Cheap catalogues are where the money is.”

Picture me flouncing out of Myer, spitting hair out of my lip gloss.

Keeper? Secretly enjoyed it.