M: E, I’ve always wanted to be one of those effortlessly beautiful girls. You know the ones.
E: Yes. They don’t look like mole rats in the morning, damn them.
M: Tall, long limbs and what not. The tousled honey colored hair. The smattering of insouciant freckles
E: The radiance. Always with the radiance.
M: YES. That healthy surfer girl glow.
M: LITHE. That’s what they are, E. Radiantly LITHE.
E: We do NOT have long limbs, do we?
M: erm, no.
E: We actually couldn’t muster a long limb if we put all 8 of ours together
M:We have 8 limbs between the two of us? OH MY GOD. You know what that means, dont you E. DON’T YOU?? WE ARE AN OCTOPUS? Slurp slurp slurp. That’s the noise the tentacles make when they hold on to your face to drag you under.
E: I worry about you, M. Whatcha got in your octolimbs today for us?
M: We may not have long limbs, but I have something that might get us a bit of that healthy antipodean glow. BECCA.
E: Ah, Becca. It’s like Bondi Beach in a prettily frosted pump dispenser. Flat whites, er, wallabies, beer.. Er.. ok, I’m losing it. Help me out. It’s like a pump action baby marsupial, right?
M: Right. Soft. Fluffy. Glowy. Oh so glowy. Maybe not quite as furry.
E: I did. And I love it. But keep your voice down, because Laura Mercier is going to KILL US.
M: Oh yes, sssssh. What do you think of it?
E: It’s brilliant. It just makes me look .. better. Better than I have any right to look on my diet of vodka and hula hoops and staring at a screen for 19 hours a day. You got me so enthused I went back and got some shimmering skin perfector too because I want to glow like the gorgeously freshfaced girls on the becca counter.
M: I got the primer. We’re becoming Becca junkies.
E: Any good?
M: Yeah, it’s good shit. Like light polyfilla for your face, all the craggy bits just get smoothed away. Smoooooooooothed.
E: The skin perfector is a light, shimmering highlighter. I have “Opal”. It gives a soft glow. Small children and bunnies no longer recoil in horror when I walk past. It’s pretty damn glowy though. Only a tiny amount needed or you shine like a 1970s alien.
M: I am jealous. Jealous of the highlighting alien goodness. Does it diffuse? Like a gri gri?
E: Yes, it diffuses exactly like a voodoo accessory, yes M.
M: So. Becca. It wards off evil spirits, looks awesome, covers sallowness of skin and pockmarks, and the pump’s good.
E: What’s not to like?
M: The fact it makes you perma-shiny in a hot climate? And the price, E, the price.
E: Pfff, price, schmice. You get to look like Elle Macpherson’s hotter, erm, very much younger sister? Daughter perhaps. I DON’T KNW ANY HOT YOUNG AUSTRALIANS. RUSSELL CROWE?
M: Tell me, E. Have you smelled Armani’s jasmine perfume?
E: No. Is it lovely?
M: I thought Armani only did perfume with italian words on it. Like GIO and ACQUA DI TOBLERONE.
E: Acqua di Pannetone. Ezzenzi di Ferrero Rocher.
M: Perfume di Papardelle.
E: Hehehehe. Did this not smell of ragu then?
M: No, not ragu, but it smelled so delicious. My friend sprayed it on her hand and I followed her round Selfridges, wanting to EAT her.
E: Wow. How .. frightening.
M: It just smells of flowers. The sweetest, prettiest, most fragile jasmine flowers. Sob.
E: Why are you sobbing?
M: Because it is £135 or something.
E: Awww. Never mind. This will cheer you up:
M: HA. That bottle looks ridiculous. It’s like a hippie on a monolith.
E: You think? To me it’s a gigantic deformed mouth. Probably eating ragu.
M: Let’s read what the Space Lizard himself has to say about it.
“A fragrance which sings the praises of light and life”.
E: Not at all ambitious, then.
M: “Giorgio Armani likes the Jasmine fragrances of his childhood, a long way from the hypnotic mysteries of the Grasse extracts; he likes its solar energy”
E: “Solar energy”. But that’s like ADMITTING that he’s a space lizard!
M: Do you like perfume’s solar energy, E?
E: No, I fear it. It wishes to do me harm.
M: The rose quartz top drinks in the light, apparently.
E: This is some big time reptile alien conspiracy shit right here.
M: Did I ever tell you about the giant crystal at the National Museum of Scotland?
E: I don’t believe so, M, no.
M: I went there to look at the taxidermied animals. There have a great big purple crystal. My friend told me last time he was there, some old hippy was standing in front of it, with his eyes closed and his head thrown back, arms spread open. DRINKING IN THE CRYSTAL POWER. That’s what Armani does. I’m not sure I want this anymore. Especially if it “takes root in the warm terrace of Indonesian Patchouli.”
E: Uh oh. That’s concentrated essence of hippy right there. There are hand-cured thong sandals abandoned on that terrace. And cheesecloth.
M: Pffff. The copy writer has ruined it for me. I am sulking.
E: Leave it to the solar hippy lizards. Anyway, cheer up M. I mean look! It’s a breakthrough! YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT FRAGRANCE. YOU VOWED YOU WOULD NEVER DO THAT.
M: Shut your face. I am not.
E: I think you’ll find you are.
M: Don’t know what you are talking about. I think you’ll find I know you are but what am I.
E: Tsk, M. There is nothing to be afraid of. Soon you will be wittering about “dry down”.
M: I don’t want to know what that is.
E: And “top notes”. And erm. no. My fragrance vocabulary stops there.
M: Humph. Let’s pretend this never happened. If you are my friend, you will pretend this never happened.
E: It never happened (I have just told the whole internet).
E: So, M. You know I am always on the look out for any kind of bathing product that comes close to the majesty of Elemis Supersoak?
M: Ahahahhahah fat chance.
E: That ideally also trims 2 inches off my thighs?
M: Right. You are looking for a fairy godmother? In bubble bath form?
E: Yes, basically. I like a challenge. So I was in Heathrow and I saw this stuff.
“Thalgo Micronised Marine Algae”
M: Is it dead sea salts? It’s always Dead Sea salts. The Dead Sea must be a sodium free zone by now.
E: NO. This is different. It looked …. medical and magical and it had the word “minceur” on the packet, so I got it.
M: Right. Did the ingredients list “Powdered unicorn?”
E: I think it’s actually “powdered corpse of rotting cormorant”, because holy mother of pokemon this stuff STINKS. It’s like bathing in seagull sick. it’s like bathing in guano. Bathing in the decomposing corpses of seabirds.
M: Ha. I’m pretty sure “rotting cormorant” is a Pokemon. Mmm, appealing.
E: It doesn’t smell pleasantly marine, M. Also, you will see from the photos how beautiful it looks when added to water. Is it not lovely?
M: Is that a giant shit covered aniseed in the bath?
E: I believe that is a globule of micronised algae.
M: Oh, no, it’s a dragon. This is the worst bath product I have ever experienced. It’s making me hallucinate.
E: Yes. And I don’t mind a bit of bath masochism and I love a bit of hardcore thalasso freakery. But seriously? When you’re lying in two inches of watery shit, you do question your life choices.
M: It looks like something that escaped from the Lush Laboratories, the nefarious place where they do all their R&D. And when it goes wrong, what do they do? Sell it in Heathrow.
E: Yes. That is definitely what happened. WHERE DID I GO WRONG???
M: Well, you were unfaithful to the Elemis, for starters.
E: I am never going to do that again.
M: Bubble bath hath no fury like an Elemis scorned.
E: I am sorry, Elemis. Don’t make me swim in seal poo again.
M: Secondly, it’s a well known fact that the only thing one should buy in an airport is Duty Free Chanel. Anything else is a mistake you will bitterly regret.
E: Do you agree Facegoopers? What are your favorite airport buys and have you ever ended up swimming in seal poo?
E: Whirl a couple of bath bombs in socks around and you have guaranteed M and I’s hatred forever. Ugh, I am getting an allergic reaction just thinking about Lush. My eyes are watering and my throat is closing up.
M: I’m sneezing. And wheezing a little bit. And also feeling the rage. UGH. Just the WORD “Lush” makes me want to retch. You are like someone else’s crazy grandmother, Lush. One who thinks she could still get frisky. And who likes to feel her boobs up AT YOU.
E: LUSH: YOU’RE A TOXIC GRANDMOTHER. If you were our granny, we’d put you in a home and never visit.
M: Yes. We’d pretend we didn’t know you.
E: “No, I don’t know why she’s shouting my name. Poor old dear, she’s obviously lost her wits”.
M: We’d hire a nice normal grandmother to pretend to be you. Like, maybe, Estee Lauder.
E: Yeah. Estee Lauder’s our nan now. Not you.
M: Get out of my sight, Lush.
E: And take those balls in socks with you.
Do you love Lush? Stand up for your granny in the comments. Or share the hate with us. Go on. You’ll feel better instantly.
M Yes. I had war paint on. And by war paint, I mean I combed my hair.
E: Because just occasionally I like to pretend I am in charge at Facegoop towers.
M: Oy! You are in charge! ish.
E: Of course i am. If by “in charge” you mean “your terrified subordinate”, then yes, I am in charge. Anyway. I sent you on a mission and you have, I believe, returned triumphant.
E: Tell me all.
M: I braved the squawking army of pink cheeked mac girls to retrieve this:
E: Ooooooooh my makeup bag! Come to momma.
M: Although why you would pay £24 for a bit of a print and a zipper, I’m not sure.
E: It has birds on, OK?
M: OK. BIRDS. Whatever. I did paw the scarf too though. It was nice. Thin and soft. Of course I blame you entirely for what happened next.
E: Oh dear. What did happen next?
M: I was drawn to the Chanel counter by invisible threads, like in a creepy puppet film.
E: Ouh la la. C’est pas bon, ça. Were they diffusing the scent of giant macarons to lure you in?
M: They had essence of Vanessa Paradis wafting. Not Joe le taxi Vanessa Paradis. Chanel Vanessa Paradis. Two very different BIRDS.
E: A taxi is a bird? I did not know this. I bet she’s a patchouli girl in real life though. Dirty barefoot hippie, living in the country with that bearded waster.
M: Yes. Do you think he just speaks in pirate speak?
M: Arrrr. That be a fine cupcake, Vanessa.
E: Arrrrrrrrr. First mate Paradis, plait me beard or I’ll make you walk the plank.
M: The end of the story is that I bought the fecking Mademoiselle lipstick, because I was brain washed by how pretty and wearable it is.
E: Oh man. And what colour is Mademoiselle?
M: It’s VANESSA PARADIS COLOURED. It’s the colour of Pretty. It is Joli.
E: Bon. Clearly I will get no sense out of you. You’ll just have to post a photo.
M: What, like this?
M: Not sure Vanessa would approve of my application “skillz”. Speaking of her, you must watch this:
E: Ils sont cons, ces français.
M: They are comparing her to Titi, the irritating yellow cartoon bird.
E: Nice tail. Céline on the Armani counter at Printemps Beauté would be jealous.
M: “On est dans une logique cartésienne”, they say. I am getting flashbacks to first year lectures at the Sorbonne.
E: C’est archi archi français, ça.
M: Oui. 100% français.
E: Hang on, we’ve got distracted again. What were we saying? You bought lipstick.
M: I blame you. The end.
E: I have also been beauty shopping, M. I have Chosen.
M: Chosen What?
E: The Chosen One. Every year, I choose a cellulite cream in which to place my ridiculous faith. I went to the pharmacy this week and It was on the counter.
M: Oh dear. This is not in the spirit of Easter.
E: The “presentoir” in which the boxes were placed was black and shiny, like it really meant business.
M: Cellulite business.
E: It was Vichy, my favourite of all of last year’s stupid snake oil creams. New Improved Vichy Nonsense.
E: Because the world has moved on since Lipo Dissolve, or whatever the last one was. Cellulite technology lies move fast. Now we have ….
E: Yes. It is a made up word they hope sounds scientific and slimming.
M: That’s like one of those bad overstock stores in Etienne Marcel. Kookai stock from 3 years ago. LA GRANDE BRADERIE de la CELLULITE!
E: PRIX HALLUCINANTS SUR LES CAPITONS!!!!! Je suis d’accord. However! Peer closer into the Vichy tube.
M: Must I?
E: Yes. The contents are pale green, the exact colour of Chanel Jade nail polish. And it contains something called a “lypolytic activator” How can it fail? It has a “lypolytic activator”, which is basically Mr Motivator for my fat. It pokes your fat until it wakes up and goes away.
M: Ugh. I am tired just thinking about it.
E: It is, you will be delighted to hear, “tested in vitro on lipocidine”. As opposed to tested on, say, LEGS.
M: Of course. Why wouldn’t it be? Legs are not hygienic, E. Everyone knows that. You think those lab-coated scientists have ever been NEAR a leg? Have they balls.
E: My favourite bit is the German for “diet resistant problem zones”, which is “Hartknäckigen Problemenzonen”
M: Knäcki. That’s a sausage, isn’t it? Well, my thighs DO look like sausages. I am sold. SOLD!
E: Well. It’s been a tremendous weekend for beauty purchasing. We have done well. Hohe funf, M?
E: Well. I wanted to do a proper scientific controlled test of snail gel. Because, you know. I am all about the science.
M: Yes. Lab coat? Check. Severe glasses? Check. Clipboard? Check. You are the Monica of cosmetic testing.
E: Rigorous. Stringent. So I have been looking for snails with which to perform a controlled test. But you know what? Something very very sinister is happening.
M: Uh oh.
E: Where once the slithery little blighters were everywhere, now there are NONE. There is not a single snail in the whole of my slimy, neglected snail paradise of a garden.
M: Interesting. Iiiiinteresting. It’s the APOCALYPSE, isn’t it?
E: SNAPOCALYPSE maybe
E: Text edit says “this word not found in the dictionary”. Really, Textedit? That’s an oversight.
M: SNAILOCALYPSE. In all good dictionaries worldwide.
E: Anyway. The only thing I could find were these:
E: Dried out snail carcasses. I can tell you, my blood ran cold.
M: Do you think the snails are mutating? Turning into freakish slugs?
E: No. I do not think they are mutating. I think something far, far more sinister is happening.
M: Oh god. OH GOD. They are being harvested, aren’t they?
E: YES. The evil Dutch boffins at De Tuinen – which, uncoincidentally, means THE GARDEN – are sneaking into Belgium in the dead of night and harvesting my snails. The snail gel is in fact made with plucky belgian garden snails. None of this Chilean bullshit.
M: Gringo caracol.
E: Aaaaanyway. In the absence of control snails, I decided I would just decorate the pot instead.
M: Fair enough.
E: I thought so. Scientific.
M: Yes. Aesthetically scientific. So what’s it like, this wonder goo?
E: Well. It says on the jar that it has “a beneficial effect on impure skin”. my skin is very impure. It is full of wine, cheap chocolate, cold remedies and the occasional stick of cancerous death.
M: Oh boy. Your skin is definitely impure. I bet it has impure thoughts.
E: Pope Benedict the Bastard has issued an edict against my skin. Fact. Perfect, then, to test the snail gel, which makes the following promise in alluring, grammatically approximate English:
“The skin will become silky soft and very smooth. By coincidence it was discovered that the slime the Helix Aspersa Muller snails use to repair the snail shell’s, has a soothing and beneficial effect on the human skin”.
I have no idea if this is true as I have only used it once so far. But I can tell you this: It is VERY VERY STICKY.
M: Never. Snail goo? Sticky? Next you’ll be saying La Prairie is expensive.
E: There is absolutely no doubt that you are smearing the mucousy ooze of snails on your face.
M: Oh man. Is it on you right now? Can you go outside with it?
E: Yes. It is on me right now. Probably drying to a silvery, flaky trail effect. I am perfectly safe to go outside. I’ll be fine as long as I don’t eat too much salt. If I eat salt I will shrivel and liquefy. (It doesn’t say that on the jar).
M: No, but we know this to be fact.
E: I would like, at this point, to remind our readers that “Gathering the slime does not harm the snails” This IS stated on the jar.
M: We have photographic evidence to the contrary.
E: The snail cemetery that is my garden begs to differ.
M: So, is your skin soft and silky smooth?
E: So far there is no discernable softness or silkiness. But I am committing to applying this for THREE WHOLE DAYS.
E: I will do this for you, Facegoop readers, even though it will probably give me angry monkey face on easter weekend when I have Plans that involve leaving the house and seeing other human beings. Iwill report back on my mucousy progress.
M: I can’t wait, but is this wise?
E: No. It is not at all wise. It’s, it’s…………. SCIENCE.
E: You seem excited M. Why is that? Tell us, tell us!
M: Before I begin, can I just say how ace our readers are. Batshit crazy, but ace. In response to my Angry Face Syndrome cry for help, they’ve recommended rubbing plants on my face, baby lotion, expensive oils, Vaseline (?!?!?), not eating curry (ha! fat chance), stuff that looks and feels like lard, and organic hippie juice. And no one has mentioned the monkey. Ace.
E: I liked the cocktails best. They are big on cocktails. I am telling you, they are Our People.
M: Yes, Our People. On Crack.
E: Yes. Sssssh.
M: Ssssh. So, inspired by their advice, I went on a tour of Edinburgh’s Health Shops.
E: Uh oh. I remember when I came to visit you and we stared in the window of the Organic Sex Shop and laughed until I nearly peed at the hemp dildos.
M: What is it with shop attendants in health shops?
E: They are all on heroin.
M: The beards.
E: The deathly pallor.
M: The slackness in the jaw. The nervous disposition.
E: They look anything but healthy. ‘Eat our tofu, and you can look this shit too’.
M: So, I went to Neal’s Yard first.
E: Who is Neal anyway, what’s in his yard, and why does he spell his name in such a stupid way? I smell hippie. Ssssssss.
M: Sssss what?
E: That’s my hippie scaring noise. I grew up in a den of them.
M: Oh god.
E: I am fearful already. WHAT? What have they done to you?
M: So, the woman only ever looked at me out of the corner of my eye. HER eye. Not my eye.
E: That would just be weird.
M: Anyway, she pulled out all these creams, said “I haven’t tried most of them”, and then left me to it.
E: Er, right. ok. Stellar customer service there.
M: “I don’t want to stand over you while you’re trying them on”. Makes a change, hippie.
E: In the wrong job, hippie.
M: So, they all smelled really strong. Like someone had crushed truck loads of flowers into one tiny pot.
E: I hate that.
M: I got some samples, and made my boyfriend smell one, without telling him where it was from. He said “WHOA, now that smells like a hippie”.
E: He has a nose for hippy. Was he also raised in a commune?
E: Und the name! Who the fuck puts snail slime on their FACE?
M: THE DUTCH.
E: You know what that is, don’t you. It’s the extremely potent cannabis resin in their siroopwaffeln.
E: Oh holy mother of god. It’s actually called Snail Gel. I could not be happier. It would be IMPOSSIBLE to be happier.
M: YES! SNAIL gel. S.N.A.I.L. GEL.
E: How much is snail gel M? Because I think we have to try it.
M: You’ll find it’s a very reasonable £20.45. BUT it’s half price at the moment.
E: Oooooh. BARGAIN. SNAIL GEL HALF PRICE STEAL.
M: My boyfriend wanted to know if you have to use the snail as an applicator. I said I wasn’t sure.
E: On that photo, is the snail big, or is the pot small? Is it one of those GIANT snails?
M: Like an African land snail?
E: Yes. It looks like our African land snail looked before my ex decided it “would be happier outside”.
E: It was not happier outside.
M: Outside… in snail PARADISE.
E: It was,in fact very rapidly dead. And happier In A Better Place.
M: In the big Chilean snail farm in the sky.
E: Actually, De Tuinen means ‘garden’, I believe, so they are probably just bog standard Dutch snails from someone’s backyard cannabis farm. Oh, Holland and Barrett. You are Facegoop GOLD.
M: It was amazing. AMAZING. There was so, so much more. Goji berry creams. Ear candles. Aloe vera colon cleanse!
E Dutch snail goo. Is the “Holland” in their name related to Holland Holland? Because that would explain a LOT.
M: Yes, yes it would.
E: I am in London next week. I will also go on a field trip to Holland & Barrett. I will not rest until I have smeared my face in the secretions of Dutch snails. Using an actual Dutch snail to apply it.
E: Why? What did you put on it? I’ve told you about trying to wash your face with Mr Muscle.
M: Nothing. I have gone back to a minimal, gentle routine because it is so ANGRY.
E: I wonder why it is angry? (WATER)
M: I blame all this stuff I’ve been poking for Face Goop. And Laura Mercier. And a virulent Ren mask. And Belgeland water.
E: Not the itchy nude minerals?
M: No, I have new ones that aren’t itchy and that seem to calm it down. But it’s basically super dry.
E: Strange. Verrrry strange (WATER)
M: I don’t think I realized how dry it was getting when I was cycling throughout the winter and now it is DAMAGED. It’s dry, spotty, lined, red, and it BURNS.
E: Hmmm. What miracle remedies do you have?
M: Nothing. I have NOTHING. No holy water, no tiny scientists in a tube, no elk-musk-testicle ointment. I am in pain and I have NOTHING.
E: When I was having a dry skin emergency earlier this year, someone told me to take those Imedeen capsules. She said they sound like bullshit but they really work.
M: Oh? Use them as in eat them?
E: No, dance the fucking chachacha with them. What do you think?
M: Listen, punk, sometimes people squeeze those capsules onto their faces. I have seen it. I might have some somewhere actually. I need something to tell my skin to sit down and shut the fuck up, and then to give it a nice pat on the head when it starts behaving.
E: Can I just take a moment to say water? You are shite. M is hot and burny and dry. I am spotty. And I am doing nothing else different at all. It must be the badness coming out. Turns out the badness was just fine where it was, wasn’t it, water? I’m keeping my badness next time, thanks.
M: Don’t anger the badness.
E: Yup. No good can come of this watery exorcism, as evidenced by my face from HELL.
It is supposed to be genius, but I am suspicious of it because it has patchouli in it, which is basically squeezed out hippie.
E: Essence of hippie. I knew it. Neal’s Yard. You try and make out you are like, proper, mainstream beauty industry sell outs, but scratch the surface and you are still a bunch of tofu knitting, tiger balm, incense freaks. I get possessed by the unquiet spirit of Richard Nixon every time I see one of your blue glass jars.
M: I smell white dreadlocks.
E: You don’t want to squeeze a hippie. That’s what you get when you squeeze a hippie.
M: Or how about the Weleda rose cream? Someone wanted us to test that.
E: That would probably be cheaper. Because we got told off yesterday for only testing expensive stuff.
M: Yes. £9.95. Pas mal, pas mal. But I might try the almond one instead because it is for sensitive skin. What are you going to do about your face spottiness?
E: Nothing. Ignore it.
M: That sounds reasonable.
E: I have covered it in Armani Luminous Silk and Laura Mercier Secret Camouflage.
M: What happened to the magical Laura Mercier powder of fluffy kittens?
E: Yeah, that’s still good. But I was in the bathroom and the Armani was all there was to hand and it has, ‘ow you say? Coverage.
M: Coverage, innit. Hmm, looking at this Weleda again. Why do people put witch hazel in everything? Witch Hazel is EVIL. It has witch essence in it.
E: Oh? I have not had problems with Witch Hazel.
M: Pah. That is because you are 37% witch yourself.
E: Now you are just getting mean and abusive. It’s your face of fire doing that. Hey, we could ask readers for advice on your dry face.
M: SOS dry spotty skin of doom emergency! Red, hot, and burny. Grrrrr.
E: Please, Facegoop readers, help M solve her red hot dry spotty skin disaster before she hurts me. This morning she sent me a picture of a two headed kitten. I am afraid of what will happen if it doesn’t improve.