I feel pretty, oh so pretty
Today I had to go down to get some passport photos taken to lodge yet another immigration application in my ongoing saga. And of course, like most things in New Zealand, this was not a straightforward process and I ended up having to kill time for 35 minutes (!!) waiting for my passport photos.
So, I did what I do and went to the local department store to collect things that I "need". You know, life's necessities like over the knee socks and new tights. And, being low on old lady eye cream, I had occasion to visit my favourite person in the world, the lady at the Lancome counter. Seriously, I love this woman.
You see, there are two accepted practices for selling facial products to women. The first, and most common, involves heavy criticism and fear, whereby the buyer is scared into believing that (a) she looks like Imogene Coca and (b) the only way to fix this is through buying their miracle skin products. There is a lot of very frank discussion of pores, broken capillaries and wrinkles and the process ends with you feeling like you're pretty much the least desirable person in the world. Which, in return, results in spending one million dollars.
The second practice involves telling the buyer that she is beautiful and that she could be even that much more beautiful through using these magnificent products that will not change her but only enhance the beauty that she is currently radiating from every pore.
The lady at the Lancome counter subscribes to the second method. And this is why I keep giving her my credit card. Today, she told me not only that I look young for my age, but also that I show remarkably few signs of aging and that I could be a model for the Lancomme line for as well as it is clearly working for me. Cha-ching. Every time a credit card gets swiped, a Lancome lady gets her wings.
So, I left that experience feeling like my stock was exceedingly high and basically strutting all over the place. And then I went to pick up my passport photos, which can only be described as the worst pictures taken of anybody ever. It's not just that the pictures look like my mother, because my mother is beautiful and the pictures would therefore be an insult to her. It's that the pictures look like somebody's mother who's been through a train wreck followed by a tornado followed by a sand storm followed by a bankruptcy followed by a death in the family. In other words, they are no bueno.
And thus I will do the only thing I can do, which is to take out my new Lancome purchase, apply liberally, and hope for the best.
So, I did what I do and went to the local department store to collect things that I "need". You know, life's necessities like over the knee socks and new tights. And, being low on old lady eye cream, I had occasion to visit my favourite person in the world, the lady at the Lancome counter. Seriously, I love this woman.
You see, there are two accepted practices for selling facial products to women. The first, and most common, involves heavy criticism and fear, whereby the buyer is scared into believing that (a) she looks like Imogene Coca and (b) the only way to fix this is through buying their miracle skin products. There is a lot of very frank discussion of pores, broken capillaries and wrinkles and the process ends with you feeling like you're pretty much the least desirable person in the world. Which, in return, results in spending one million dollars.
The second practice involves telling the buyer that she is beautiful and that she could be even that much more beautiful through using these magnificent products that will not change her but only enhance the beauty that she is currently radiating from every pore.
The lady at the Lancome counter subscribes to the second method. And this is why I keep giving her my credit card. Today, she told me not only that I look young for my age, but also that I show remarkably few signs of aging and that I could be a model for the Lancomme line for as well as it is clearly working for me. Cha-ching. Every time a credit card gets swiped, a Lancome lady gets her wings.
So, I left that experience feeling like my stock was exceedingly high and basically strutting all over the place. And then I went to pick up my passport photos, which can only be described as the worst pictures taken of anybody ever. It's not just that the pictures look like my mother, because my mother is beautiful and the pictures would therefore be an insult to her. It's that the pictures look like somebody's mother who's been through a train wreck followed by a tornado followed by a sand storm followed by a bankruptcy followed by a death in the family. In other words, they are no bueno.
And thus I will do the only thing I can do, which is to take out my new Lancome purchase, apply liberally, and hope for the best.
posted by E. at
4:20 AM
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