E: M, it may have escaped your notice in the frozen steppes of Scotchland, but summer is upon us.
M: Oh? I have not left my anti-histamine tower of despair for a few days. What is this summer of which you speak?
E: Yes. There is a fiery ball in the sky and I do not believe it heralds the apocalypse (actually, I do, but for the purposes of this post, let us assume it is just summer).
M: Hold on, I remember. You were telling us that one had to EXFOLIATE to prepare for this.
E: Yes!
M: AHA!
E: So now it is time for PHASE TWO.
M: I can barely contain my excitement (that is a lie).
E: The Phase Where It All Goes Horribly Wrong
M: Oh good. Just what we need. More things going wrong.
E: As you know, M, my complexion is part Edward Cullen, part supermarket chicken thigh.
M: You’re a sparkly chicken thigh?
E: More the deathly pallor of the undead. Thus, if I wish to expose my flesh I must colour it beautiful.
Mi: Ha. HA, I say. I laugh with the amused disdain of one who is pre-coloured.
E: We all know where this is going. It is going down the horrible road of stale biscuit scented DOOM that is FAKE TAN.
M: Can you explain fake tan to me? It is like dating. I iz foreign. I no understand.
E: No. And I do not have any particularly good news for the pastier Facegoopers. But I can tell you what not to do.
E’s guide to bronzing
1. Do not apply fake tan drunk
2. Do not apply fake tan and go straight to bed
3. Do not apply fake tan if you are a spatially challenged moron
4. Do not apply fake tan to open wounds.
Because I have done all these things many times
M: 5. Do not apply fake tan if the bottle has a stupid pun on it?
E: YES. ESPECIALLY THAT. Let us talk about that particular offender.
M: Soap & Glory, J’ACCUSE.
E: It is called “Glow Getter”. Ha, ha Soap & Glory! I am glad I put my corset on today! Though this is not actually fake tan, I should say. It is “paint in a bottle that you put on yourself and then wash off at the end of the day”
M: You are starting to make my head hurt. Does this, or does this not, turn your legs patchy orange?
E: No. It is WORSE than that
M: I am intrigued, against my will and common sense.
E: This is like spray paint for legs. Firstly, I have a conceptual problem with it.
M: Why? because it is SPRAY PAINT FOR LEGS? Nutjob.
E: In a nutshell, Yes. why would I put something brown and smeary on myself when I only have to wash it off again and start again the same day????
M: Yes indeed E. WHY???
E: Oh, we can add 4. to the list: Do not go to bed without washing off “Glow Getter”. You will regret it. So. Glow Getter. It is like something an inept graffiti artist would use so I felt terribly “street” putting it on. Unfortunately, it is only good for tagging. Look:
This is my “rubbish product” tag
M: Ha. HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA. You are like a bad tag on the RER C. Soon your leg will be giving coppers the finger and stuff.
E: My leg is a badass. Soon it will be getting one of those curfew tags. And you know what? The end result was NO BETTER. It does not spread. it does not become even. It repels moisturiser. It took me 15 minutes to get my legs looking like legs and not RER C tags. And even then they were the most improbable shade: sort of orangey browny nuclear CRAP.
M: How did you manage that? a scourer?
E: With my salty tears, M, with my salty tears.
M: I am unimpressed on so many levels I don’t know where to start.
E: Bitter experience tells me the only fake tan I can use with ANY degree of success (and I define that very widely) is the ‘gradual tanning’ kind. Like St Tropez EveryDay Light – Medium. Even with that, I would say only one in ten applications isn’t completely fucked up.
M: Right. That’s it. I’m staging an intervention. THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH YOUR LEG COLOUR. Go sit in the sun for an afternoon. STEP AWAY FROM THE TANNERS. The end.
E: But M. My legs have no melanin in them. I can sit in the sun until my face ressembles a blistering tomato, and my legs stay blue. But one thing is sure: the answer is emphatically not Glow Getter
M: You just need to accept that these are the legs that the Lizard King has given you.
E: No! I want magical cosmetic solutions! I refuse to spend my whole life blue!
Facegoopers: is there any fake tan miracle out there that can transform E from a supermarket chicken thigh into a gorgeously bronzed human?
M: I fear I’ve been suckered into a cult, E. The cult of… what? Vanity? Old age? Smooth face? Unnecessary cosmetic procedures?
E: Oh no. NO. Next time I see you you will be a frozen faced Nicole Kidman-alikey. Do I need to send the deprogrammer in?
M: Yes. I will in fact be wearing Nicole’s face, like a balaclava. Do not worry. I am not a scientologist.
E: Hmmm. Tell me more.
M: Due to temporary insanity, I have booked myself in for a course of six microdermabrasion sessions. They have a magical name: DIAMOND TOME.
E: DIAMOND TOME. WOW. I can see how you got sucked in. That sounds… SHINY. Are you shiny?
M: Their motto? “Beauty is only skin deep”.
E: Do you sparkle like a 4ct very very clear baguette cut? Or something?
M: I’m not sure what that even means, but yes, I am shiny. So shiny and smooth my boyfriend has remarked on the clarity of my complexion. WITHOUT PROMPTING.
E: Whoa! You need to tell me how they did that. It sounds amazing.
M: Well, imagine if someone had a tiny Dyson, made of diamonds, and used the precision attachment on your FACE. That’s what it feels like. A sort of hoovering scrubbing action.
E: That sounds scratchy. Was it scratchy?
M: No, not scratchy and certainly not painful.
E: Didn’t your face go all angry monkey?
M: No. Afterwards it felt a bit raw, but not red. It was also unbelievably plump and smoothed out.
E: Wow. How long did it take?
M: 30 minutes. After that I had a lamb kebab. I’m all about the class. The thing is, I LOVE it. It’s been days now and my face is so much better. Makeup goes on smoothly. There’s been one angry spot but no other ill effects.
E: Wow. I am in serious danger of joining your cult. As you may have noticed by now, Facegoopers, M is not easily impressed.
M: Also, the perky snake-tongued facialist talked me into buying some product.
E: What product? Diamond paste?
M: Dude, this is hardcore medical grade thermo-nuclear skin care business. Actually, I’ve never heard of it before. It’s Priori bioengineered skincare. It’s made by people in lab coats.
E: Those hazmat suits, probably. “Bioengineered”. What does that MEAN exactly? Engineered by humans? And not by space lizards made of unobtainium?
M: I have the face wash, and the barrier repair complex cream. Both have LCA COMPLEX in them. You know how I love me some lactic acid. And Advanced AHAs. These are AHAs who have postgraduate degrees.
E: “Idebenome superceuticals”. Even for a cosmetics bollocks term, that is pretty special. And look! “The triathlon of skin fitness”! Wow. my skin can’t even run the 100 metres. It gets a stitch halfway.
M: It is bollocks, isn’t it.
E: Sssssssssssshhh. We believe in superceuticals, M, like demented single ladies of a certain age who wear a lot of chiffon believe in fairies. We’re doing noone any harm. Except HSBC and they can fuck off. So to summarise: you have joined a cult, but you are HAPPY, SO HAPPY.
M: Yes. I am happy. I will take photos after every session, and report back at the end. I’m hoping I will look like a nubile teenager.
E: Well, I am properly excited by this. I suspect HSBC aren’t.
M: Yes. Well, I like sunscreen, in spite of living in Scotchland. I am terrified of sun damage and what not.
E: Ha, strange girl. You should be worrying about trench foot.
M: Nevertheless, I really wanted to try your beloved Clarins anti-sun thingy what not, but I can’t afford the £28 or whatever it costs. (Shut up about the expensive microdermabrasion I may or may not have recently indulged in)
E: (sssssssh I didn’t say anything)
M: So I picked this up in Superdrug. L’Oreal Solar expertise Active anti-wrinkle and brown spot matte fluid protection.
M: Catchy name. I half expect it to burst into French rap, any minute. Caroline, Caroline.
E: Qui sème le vent récolte le sunscreen.
M: Je suis l’as de crème qui pique ta protection solaire.
E: So, MC Sunscreen? How is he?
M: He’s pretty good actually. Fluid, thin. Bit hard to spread. Mattifying? Hmm, maybe, in a sheeny sort of way.
E: Not bad, not bad. Do you feel like it’s SPFing?
M: Yes. It has 50 of your finest SPFs. The end.
E: Well that’s pretty good. Allez, let’s have some more French rap now.
M: (I don’t know any other MC Solaar songs)
E: Hmmm. Bouge de là?
M: Oui, bouge de là. Bouge bouge bouge bouge de là, sun damage. French Rap cosmetic reviews suck. Word.
E: Must we? Why would we do that? We are a high class beauty blog.
M: Yes, we must. There have been too many pretty things on here lately.
E: So you thought you’d lower the tone. Good.
M: We need to get sweaty.
E: I can’t do games, Miss. I forgot my gym kit. AND I’ve got my period. Again. For the third week running.
M: It’s ok, there’s no sport involved. Today, I would like to discuss the Dove Hair Minimising anti-perspirant deodorant.
E: Hair minimising??? Really????
M: I’m glad you ask, because that is exactly what it says on the back of the roll-on. “With continued use, your underarms look and feel hair free for longer”
E: This is like black magic, in a deodorant.I don’t know whether to be impressed or burn it at the stake
M: Remember how one of our commenters was outraged by the claim that women feel sexier with hair free underarms?
E: Yup. There was a percentage as well. A high one.
M: Well, I am one of those women. And, I am hairy.
M’s portrait of her hairy armpit. Do not ask why she does not have a nose.
E: You one of the 78%.
M: Nature has set me up, ONCE AGAIN.
E: Thanks, Nature, you asshole. E: No hair. M: Too much hair.
M: Merci mille fois, Nature, you two-faced bully. You give with one hand, and you give a wedgie with the other.
E: You are very lyrical on this subject. Tell me more .
M: So I had high hopes for this deodorant. And, well. It deodorizes.
E: One would hope it manages that.
M: But does it keep you hair free? Does it hell. I am just as hairy as I ever was. And I have been using it for what, a year? Because I bought them on a BOGOF. So I have a lifetime’s supply of said deodorant.
E: You have given it a fair trial. It did sound like colossal bullshit. I mean, what’s in it? Monsanto Roundup weedkiller?
M: Who the fuck knows. I can not be bothered to look it up. Dove hair minimising bla bla bla has wasted enough of my time as it is.
E: What percentage pissed off would you say you were? 78%?
M: Yes, roughly 78%.
E: And the rest is, what? Hair?
M: Yes. 12% hair, 10% stupidity.
E: Dove: Made by stupid people, for stupid people.
M: Readers, are you also stupid sweaty people? Please say yes.
M: You look really pretty today. And I really like your shoes.
E: OH NO. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
M: And have I ever told you how clever you are?
E: You might as well just tell me. TELL ME.
M: Shhhhhhh [hides under desk].
E: Come out of there. We can still see you. Your JENNERS BAG is poking out.
M: This bag? The dark black one with red tissue paper, the delicately scented one that says GIORGIO ARMANI?
E: Yes. That bag. Now tell me what on earth you have been up to with the lizard king or I’m sending for Laura Mercier and her Jack Bauer style torture techniques. WHAT IS IN THE BAG, M?
M: Before I tell you about what’s in the bag, I must tell you about Jen, the Armani Face Designer. She is Céline’s younger Scottish sister. Her hair is soft and lustrous. Her eyes deep and understanding. Her tail is dainty and hardly noticeable at all.
E: Ha. “Face Designer”. They programme her that way back on the mothership for optimal Customer Service.
M: Yes, then she reprograms your face to comply with the Armani Algorithm.
E: Correct.
M: Sleekness. Smoothness. Impact.
E: It might not be your face anymore, but it’s BETTER.
M: She has a mirror, that she sent me out to Princes St with. To check my face in. It’s that thing the magazines always tell you to do but that never ever happens.
E: Ha! Not at all embarrassing that.
M: The tourists stared and the grannies tutted, but I did not care. Jen had me in her thrall. The thing about Jen is that she sounds so innocent and sincere. Like, when she told me my skin was good. Or when she praised the shape of my eyebrows. Or the fact that my lids were just right for putting shadow on. I lapped it up. Like a brain zombie.
E: And then what happened, M? How did she pounce? What has she done to you?
M: No, she did not pounce. That is the genius of Jen. I just volunteered to spend £65 on roughly 10 grams of coloured powder. The thing is, I didn’t care. Because I wanted to be just like Jen. Including the wonderfully irridescent green shadow on her eyes.
E: Ooooh, nice.
M: I’m pretty sure crack is cheaper than that. Anyway, LOOK A IT. The “Mediterranean Palette”. Isn’t it beautiful?
E: Mediterranean Palette sounds like a delicious mezze plate. But where are the olives? Where is the tzatziki?
M: They have been replaced by this bronzer, which is ace. And then 4 shadows.
E: Ok, it does look pretty awesome. And is it as good as it looks?
M: YES. Look:
Yes. The fact I am willing to show you my face is proof of the power of Armani. The green is green, but it does not make you look crazy, because the colours are sheer and combine into subtle effects. It just gives your eyes brightness and definition. Only one downside. Now, I have to sacrifice a goat to his Highness.
E: King Lizard be praised! You look amazing. The Armani algorithm is working for you. Actually, I think the goat sacrifice can wait until you have worked your earthling fingers to the bone to pay for the palette.
M: I don’t give a shit. Because I am going to wear it ALL THE TIME.
She casually said to me, as she was wrapping it up “It’s a very limited edition, we only got 8 in stock.” BWAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA.
E: BWAHAHAHHAHAA Bon. I forgive you, M. It is hard to resist a facial redesign from space.
M: Thank you for your forgiveness, E. I must resist the genius mascara, or the amazing Fluid Sheer of Wonder. I feel myself drawn back to the Lizard Lair. I must be strong. Pray for me.
E: Ok M. I’m quite excited. Are you going to take me on a voyage of discovery to the land of … Mascara? Alittle known Balkan state.
M: Get your facts right. It’s an Island in the Maldives.
E: Oh yes, sorry. Owned by the Pope who is himself partial to the fruits of the mascara tree.
M: To be completely honest, I must admit I am Not That Bothered With Mascara (NTBM). I’ll use whatever is at hand.
E: NTBM. Like NTM but more polite.
M: Nique Ton Mascara. That’s gross, E.
E: Ouais, grave. Ok, come on, tell me more about the Island of Mascara.
M: Also, I can’t use eyelash curlers. They give me the fucking creeps. You might as well try to lawnmow my face.
E: They look like something from Clockwork Orange.
M: The result would be the same: hyperventilation. Blacking out. Manic screaming.
E: A normal Monday chez Facegoop.
M: So, this is my technique for mascar. Start with a naked eye.
M: Find a mascara tube that isn’t 3 years old.
E: Good start. Conjunctivitis is never a good look.
M: Dab it on, apprehensively. Usually get some right in my eye. Cry a bit. Curse. Then push the lashes up, while they’re still wet, so they curl up a little. The end.
E: So. None of this crazy shit oscillating brush business for you? Vibrations?
Infrared? Small pixies creeping out of the tube to stroke your lashes?
M: No. I mean, if someone wants to give me one, I’ll use it. I’ll even be polite to the pixies. AS LONG AS THEY DON’T STROKE MY EYEBALLS.
E: Ew. You’d be fully entitled to kick the little fuckers in their tiny pixie nuts if they did that.
M: But really, I demand two things out of a mascara:
1. Do not give me panda eyes. I mean, really. If I wanted panda eyes, I’d be eating bamboo.
2. Get the fuck off my lashes when I tell you to, mascara. None of this staying around for a “night cap” business.
E: We do not want to see your etchings. Or hear about how you and your wife ‘live separate lives’.
M: And we definitely don’t want to see you “tasteful nudes”. With that in mind. Here are the 4 mascaras I found in my pile of crap cosmetic drawer.
Definie-a-lash in Black Waterproof
The Claim:
No clumps, separated, seriously long lashes
The Anecdote:
Recommended by my sister, the actress slash moddle. Perfectly long, fluttery, defined lashes on her. Unfortunately I made the mistake of buying the waterproof version. Gives quite stiff, crispy lashes, and is impossible to remove – no amount of eye make up remover, oil cleanser, soaking, wiping, scraping or praying to the gods will prevent next day panda eyes.
M’s Verdict:
It’s good stuff. But stay away from the waterproof.
E says: You look pretty good, but it’s not science fiction uber lashes, is it? Whatevs.
The Claim:
Lash building brush helps build even the tiniest lashes for a cleaner, more separated lash finish.
The Anecdote:
I used this when I was a teenager. That and those giant glue sticks of Palmer’s Cocoa butter balm we used to rub on our lips obsessively. Good times.
M’s Verdict:
It’s actually very good, the brush is quite small and does tackle even the tiniest lashes. I seem to remember this melting onto my face pretty fast though, which is probably why I haven’t used it in ages.
E says: Yeah, this looks very good. The name is like a Whitney Houston song though. The Greatest Lash of All.
The Claim:
Super volumising mascara for false lash effect dramatically thicker and fuller lashes.
The Anecdote:
As recommended by the Topshop makeup artiste. The brush is chunky and always loaded with lots of gloopy product. I usually get some around my lids. It’s very clumpy too so I have to use my fingers to get the worst of it off.
M’s Verdict:
In spite of its rebellious teenager behaviour, I like it for its high impact, and have been using it daily. It lasts until the evening with no smudging or melting. It gets to the lash roots like no mascara I’ve ever tried, but it’s not so good on the small outer corners.
E says: I don’t understand why you like something that gloops on you, but whatever, dude. This looks like Old Skool mascara to me, like quite heavy in a sultry temptress kind of way. Looks kind of lengthening. Does that even make sense? Urgh, my head hurts.
The Claim:
Dress the eye with powerful, plush, voluminous lashes.
The Anecdote:
I don’t actually own this, but the gentle lovely FACE DESIGNER at Armani made me try it. I have no idea how she put it on, because my eyes were closed during the application. She could have told me, but she probably would have had to kill me.
M’s verdict:
Go away. My lash extensions and I have some fluttering to do.
E says: See, when I see you wearing this, I wonder why you bother with the others. This is KING MASCARA. King Mascara of Lizardland. BOW DOWN AND WORSHIP HIM.
M: Oh, interesting. I thought you couldn’t be bothered with it during the week?
E: No, that’s right, but recently, it has started to make all manner of sense. I wasn’t expecting it, but it’s grown on me. Like a dewy, moisturising fungus. Eeew I have revolted myself.
M: Again. Tell me more about Face Fabric.
E: Well, I’m not foundation phobic. I quite like foundation. I have both Face Fabric and Luminous Silk, by the Lizard King. Mr Armani isn’t stupid when it comes to foundation. He knows his beigey coveragey stuff.
M: And indeed, brain control.
E: Ssssh he can hear you.
M: I have a sample of Luminous Silk. I like it.
E: Yes, it’s good for facial leprosy. It has more coverage than Face Fabric.
M: But it doesn’t give you that breathy feel.
E: Nope. Whereas Face Fabric is like magical disappearing foundation. A bit like your Diorskin.
M: What’s it like? I have poked it at the counter. Is it a bit moussy?
E: Yes, it feels quite thick in the tube and when you put it on. But once it’s on, it just fucks off into your skin and concentrates on making you even and dewy. I use my fingers because I am fucking lazy and it still looks good.
M: It’s clever, that Face Fabric.
E: Yup. It’s Fabric. For your Face. I just repeat buy without ever getting tempted to buy anything else (except Laura Mercier).
M: Is it matte? Dry as the desert sand?
E: No! It’s more sheer. And the colour match is great for me (#1 cadaver)
M: Does it actually cover anything?
E: Erm. I think so. I could show you? With a pic with one half Face Fabricked and the other nothing?
M: Yes, do. My craggy volcanic slopes of a face demand it.
E: Uh oh. don’t say volcano.
M: Shhhhhhhh.
E: Ssssssssh. Ok, here you go:
M: I take it the Face Fabric is applied on the left hand side of your face (in the photos)?
E: I’m glad you can tell. This could have been embarrassing.
M: No, it is visible but also very natural.
E: That’s space technology for you.
M: Space Technology Holy Grail Foundation. I’m still looking for mine. What’s your favourite foundation, facegoopists?
M: The epidemic is pretty much over (turned out it was FOLLICULITIS and required a course of antibiotics. EW)
E: EW. That sounds like a proper disease and everything! Curse of Facegoop!
M: It has left some unsightly blemishes, marks, bumps and scars all over my face the likes of which I hadn’t seen since my Roaccutane teenage years.
E: Curse. Of. Facegoop. Why did we have the arrogance to start a beauty blog, M? We were so wrong! So so wrong!
M: So I need to wear foundation. And I hate foundation.
E: Oh, but foundation is our friend. I love my foundation. But then I am older and more haggard than you.
M: NO. Foundation is NOT our friend. Foundation is a gloopy, strangely coloured, runner of a bastard.
E: Noooooo! Foundation saves drowning puppies! It does a lot of charity work and doesn’t talk about it! It can make its own bread!
M: Don’t give me that. I have never had much luck with foundation. My colouring is unhelpful. My face is dry and oily. I can’t be bothered to reapply and/or powder. But needs must, or whatever the expression is.
E: Needs must when the folliculitis drives is the full expression, I believe. How are your adventures in foundation going?
M: Both Lisa Eldridge and Newby Hands have recommended this, so being the brain zombie that I am, I had to try it. DIORSKIN NUDE.
E: Oh yes. Well, Lisa and Newby can’t possibly be wrong (see how I pretend to be on first name terms with them?).
M: Ha!I think of them more as Your Majesties. Anyway. The lovely Dior boy in Jenners put it on my face.
E: Right.
M: And gave me a week’s supply of it to try at home. In this teeny tiny pot! Yay!
E: Oooh, that’s nice. that’s generous. And??? How is it?
M: At first I was disappointed, because it went everywhere. On my mobile screen, on my laptop sleeve, on my CORPORATE ACCOUNTS.
E: Oh god. That is not good. Accountants don’t like foundation stains. What did you do with it, smear it all over your monkey paws and play finger painting?
M: I distracted the accountant with the blackboard paint on my forearm. But I was like, what the fuck, Dior? You are not supposed to smear all over my papers. You are supposed to stay on my face, and give me a tiny waspish waist, and slender ankles.
E: Too fucking right. And a big pouffy pink dress and a bike.
M: Anyway, I think it was just due to whatever cream he used to clean my face first, because I have had none of this transfer nonsense in subsequent uses. Just light as a feather covering, and I love it.
E: God, I love it when something is actually good.
M: You can’t feel it at all, which for a liquid foundation is amazing. And it’s hydrating and has SPF 10 as well. So pretty much perfect. Except…
E: Let me guess. Colour match issues?
M: Yup. I can’t get a fucking colour match. They only have 9 shades, I’m between 030 and 040. One is too light, the other too dark.
E: I knew it. Bastards.
M: Dior, get your fucking act together. I went back and got another vial of 7 day Dior skin. I still need to try it, but it seems very dark. So I’m afraid I might have to drop £60 for two shades and mix. Sigh.
E: Le big fat sigh. You must persist. It’s what her Majesty of Eldridge would want. And Countess Hands.
M: Oh, and the other thing is, your face needs to be perfectly dry when you apply it, otherwise it goes wonky. And you need to use a brush.
E: Jesus, that’s high maintenance. You must really love it to put up with that.
M: Dude, you can’t feel it on your face. And it survived a two hour sweaty bike ride in the sun.
E: Diorskin Nude. Tougher than a two hour sweaty bike ride.
M: Lighter than a feather. More colour blind than a Kandinsky.
