M: E, I have rediscovered my Le Métier de Beauté Peau Vierge concealer from years ago. It was sent to me by the very kind and conveniently for me much paler-skinned Modesty Brown.
E: What is this, exactly? I am unaware of its work. Is it good?
M: It is. I have big love for it. It is the creamiest of creamies.
E: I see. The holy of holies of concealers. I will go a long way for a good concealer.
M: This one is excellent. It contains some sort of military-grade retinol, which my spot-prone skin appears to love. HOWEVER.
E: Uh oh, what?
M: You can’t buy it in shops in the UK anymore, AND it is…
E: Banned? By the Pope?
M: No. Maybe. Can you guess how much it is?
E: Surely it can’t be much more than thirty five quid. No concealer can cost more than that. My Chantecaille one which I fully believe to be made from the iridescent dust that coats the wings of fairies, brushed off with squirrel brushes as you inform me the Bolshoi Ballet use, costs thirty two, which is ruinous. Thirty five, final offer.
M: HA. £76, my friend.
E: YOU WHAT?! Sweet baby jesus. Is it made with the distilled blood of the five footed unicorn? Blended with teeny tiny mermaid tears and fragments of the true cross?
M: The skin of virgins, according to its actual name. It is so good though. You just dab it onto the bits that need it, and it sorts of just melts into the skin, in an invisible, luminous, completely natural way. No need for foundation, really. This teeny tiny tube better last me forever.
E: I’m fairly sure your accountant agrees with that sentiment. They can take your pride but they’ll never take your Métier de Dorloteur de Licorne.
M: Métier de Beauté. Get your terrifyingly expensive unicorn brands right.