So, a few days back, I was floating around Nordstrom’s make up department with the intention of buying a replacement copy of M.A.C.’s “MAC Red”, my favorite yet, most recently lost, shade of red lipstick. I was looking kind of glassy eyed at all the other brands, taking a general survey of items that I had no idea how to use when I became snared by a helpful make up artist who encouraged me to “try on the new eye shadows” at the NARS counter.
Kindly-ish Make Up Artist: “Your skin is dry. What kind of moisturizer do you use on your face?”
Kindly-ish Make Up Artist: “… Dear God. Please tell me you use a moisturizer.”
And she was right, despite good moisturization being one of my top intentions of the year, I have really dropped the ball on that. In fact, my daily hygiene routine would probably make all mothers, not just my own, weep. As my friend Matt said to me this summer, “Isn’t it funny that the older I get, the more punk I accidentally become?”
Thus, I am making some self-indulgent fashion and beauty goals for this fall. It will start with better moisturizing but will arch out to include better hair color, keeping my fingernails all one length, and wearing a lot of plummy/berry lip colors. Fashion-wise, I’m getting amped up to wear a lot of black and grey and (p)leather. I’m going to try to be kind of boring but kind of badass in the socially ok’d black-leather-jacket/black-stretch-jeans/black-leather-boots/black-plastic-frame-glasses/lots-of-silver-rings way. A return to form, really. I also just picked up a multi-color and black striped sweater and a silk Oscar de la Renta scarf from Savers and I am anxiously awaiting the onset of the autumn chill so that I can get all duded up in my less-feminine choices. Not that identifying as a “pretty girl” (my humorous/very true, liberal, northeastern, gender identity) isn’t nice and all but I’m ready to swing back into being someone that high school Liz might have thought was at least mildly cool*. I’m doing this for you, teenaged me. Stop rolling your eyes.
*reading too much Rookie Magazine has me zoning out on high school nostalgia SO HARD. No one told me that remembering all the discomfort and ugliness and apathy of those years could make me feel so… yearn-y… for them. Mix tapes. Aimless driving. Being in endless love with dudes who didn’t know I existed while almost exclusively going to school dances with gay dudes who were sometimes also in love with those same, shitty boys. Mmmm. Living in the past.