I’m not a beauty blogger, but if you read this blog regularly, you know that I love makeup. You probably also know that I watch General Hospital daily. One day recently, these two loves collided when I saw the perfect lipstick color on my favorite soap. If you’re familiar with the show, it was the day that Samantha and Jason were getting married (again, shortly after they divorced).
Soap weddings are always beautiful and there’s usually some unexpected drama. I couldn’t tell you anything about this particular soap wedding once Samantha (Kelly Monaco) made her entrance wearing that lipstick. From that point on, I was focused on finding out the brand and name of the color. The first step was getting a picture. Just look at this…
The next step was heading to the makeup counter so that a professional could lead me to this perfection. I could save some money and take my chances on my own untrained eye at the discount make up counter, but I needed this lipstick shade, so nothing less than an expert would do. I knew from experience that as soon as I showed her this picture, she’d pull out the perfect match and I’d be on my way in minutes. As it turns out, “expert” may have been a stretch. My experience bordered more on “employed” in the cosmetic industry rather than any form of expertise.
After I showed her this picture, the first color she swiped across the back of my hand was a fluorescent flamingo pink that would have shown up to any destination five minutes before me. I told her that it was much too bright. “Bright?” was her surprised response. She clearly didn’t agree. It was going to get worse. After my hand was covered in pink after pink, I showed her the picture again. Maybe she’d forgotten what it looked like.
We progressed to purples that Prince himself would declare as too much. She walked away for a moment to help another customer which gave me a chance to clean off the back of my hand and reflect on what was happening. I could look at this from one of two perspectives: either I’m not expressing my needs properly or she’s a flaming idiot. I chose to believe that I was the problem.
When she returned, I showed her the picture again. I pointed out that to me it looks like a darker shade than she has shown me up to this point, more red than pink, and not so bright (kinda like her). Next thing I know, the back of my hand is striped in brown shades then, in a complete 180 degree turn, she pulls out a nude color. It disappeared on the back of my hand, because it was nude!
Once again, she had to walk away. I should have taken that opportunity to leave, but instead I leaned over the counter, pulled out a dark red, handed it to her and said “I’ll take this one.” In this comparison photo, I can see that it’s not quite the same color, thanks to my lack of ability to distinguish the difference in colors any further than the original box of 8 crayons I received in kindergarten. Yet still, I came a lot closer than the “expert” on the other side of the counter.
Maybe my mother was right when she said “if you want something done right, do it yourself.”