We All Scream for Eye Cream

A Cautionary Tale

New Year’s is a time for resolutions as we all know but please don’t leave yet, as that’s not really what I am writing about today. As far as lengthy self-improvement lists go, I prefer to check in with myself on a more regular basis just to see what can be reasonably achieved. The sorry state of my melting triceps aside, I do consistently aim to read in a more nourishing way.

How about finally getting around to Rumi, more Edna O’Brien and anything, frankly, from Patti Smith’s extraordinary reading list if the books could ever actually be located, anywhere?

I do love a bit of non-fiction, especially a thought provoking memoir like Julian Barnes’ Nothing to be Frightened Of. Social histories can also be very appealing provided they are not dry. A Classic Slum by Robert Roberts manages to be a page-turner if you are interested in vignettes from the British working-class and I have re-read a few times.

I won’t have more than two books on the go at any given time and certainly I do also enjoy reading from more recent times: Marian Keyes, Jilly Cooper, Kate Atkinson, Grace Dent, Donna Morrissey and Jhumpa Lahiri are all firm favs on my shelf.

But my peculiar, all-over-the-place reading taste often failed to impress when I worked at the library and patrons would sometimes present with a list of best sellers and be visibly disappointed when I had not read any/many of them. “What are you reading right now, then?” they would ask in a tone meant to fluster me and then be further rattled when I shared that I didn’t really care for a good blockbuster mystery and instead was currently enjoying The Penguin Book of Spiritual Verse.

That part of the conversation usually died away quite quickly then, although obviously I was still happy and able to recommend what THEY would enjoy.

Needless to say, I am not a sought after guest for book clubs which actually suits me fine.

I reveal all this not to be pretentious (or bore you) but rather, to prove that I am not an unthinking person. I don’t know why I feel the need to preface a piece about my fondness for the Sephora store in this way but the internet has made many of us a bit skittish lest we be judged and thought shallow.

That said, I will tell anyone - and have - that the skilled staff at Sephora are reliably kind, informative and pleased to guide which has become even more important as I age and attempt to “keep myself nice” as my mum might say. Plus, I continually try to keep my self-esteem out of the basement which often involves avoiding the internet altogether with its endless lure of things that won’t work and cost a fortune. The online Mean-Girl-esque lists of make-up crimes that “older women” are committing are also especially unhelpful.

And yet, conversely, many times, my own spirits have been considerably raised by a simple visit to Sephora even if only for a lipstick purchase.

I am not alone in this. There is plenty of documentation to suggest that many women find buying a new lipstick a cheap and cheerful way to buoy the mood; indeed, even during the pandemic when my paltry pout was hidden beneath the tri-layers of a plague mask, I still felt better knowing there was a bit of creamy, rose-scented Dior across my lips.

Photo by Anna Keibalo on Unsplash

To be clear, even though I don’t use a great deal of make-up, when I make a purchase now, there is no longer any guess-work and regret involved.

(Who amongst us has not excitedly unwrapped an impulsive lipstick purchase at home only to find that what seemed to be a soft red in the store is now a bluish magenta with flecks of unwanted glitter? In my teen years, I repeated versions of this mistake over and over again, only to end up looking like a surprised Nosferatu in drag.)

Image (fortunately) not available.

I do have fond memories of shy, entry-level purchases such as anything by Helena Rubinstein. There was a very natural product in a squeezable tube called “cheek stain” I liked very much, as well as a ‘clay’ cleanser whose texture was like cool velvet cream and smelled like clean linen flapping on the line. My make-up cache - then and now - was not extensive and when I was young, someone once gave me a disc of 12 shades presented in the shape of a paint palette.

I’m certain this person meant well but the grim, waxy colours would have been better suited to someone intent on pursuing a career at Barnum & Bailey’s.

circus clown

But I digress. Most recently, I was at Sephora testing various eye creams which are give-me-a-whiff-of-oxygen expensive but last a very long time and do provide a vital service.

I was unsure which brand to choose and I didn’t want to make an expensive mistake.

sephora

In order to ease the process, my kind counsellor of the day, spooned a button sized amount of eye elixirs into 3 tiny plastic sleeves for me to take home and sample in my own time. She did not make me feel like I was a down and out woman having to decide between make-up and you know, lentils for the week. She even said I had excellent skin - without adding “for your age.”

Perhaps they learn to say such things in seminars but I choose to believe in her heavily lashed sincerity.

Regardless, when I left the store I felt radiant. I was Chrissie Hynde. I was hopeful. Happy, even.

The next morning, excited-ready to do my make-up, I assembled the trio of creams, inhaling deeply as I opened the little bags, again preparing myself for this bit of French luxury. I could hear my phone buzzing in my purse downstairs and since I am rarely called, I popped downstairs to answer it. After a short time, I returned to my desk (which has the only decent light in the house) and noticed that the tiny bags were gone. Disbelieving, I looked under cushions, lifted the rug, crawled about on the floor.

It was then that I noticed my Siamese cat ‘Dresden,’ casually (a little TOO casually) tending his bottom with his leg over his head. He paused briefly to give me a bored, faintly enquiring glance. It was then that I also noticed the tiny Sephora sleeves - now eerily transparent - licked completely clean, folded neatly beside him. His nose had a smooth gleam not unlike a buttery leather glove or a celebrity with that chicken-breast-under-Saran-wrap look so often seen on YouTube skincare videos.

When I came closer, I was able to detect distinct notes of gardenia on his breath.

I was not happy with this situation - or the cat’s complete lack of regret -but found it difficult not to be amused.

My eye cream selection has since been delayed for the time being.

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