M: Let us start then, E, by saying that I hate your guts.
E: Oh come now, M. You know I am basically, Single White Female but without the ginger bob. So when you told me recently about how much you were obsessing about special hungarian black mud cleanser, I went STRAIGHT OUT AND BOUGHT IT. Bwhahahahahaha. At school, that would have been the end of our friendship, wouldn’t it? You would have dumped my textbooks down the toilets and told everyone I had syphilis.
M: At school?!??! dude. you stole my life. Worse than that, you stole my CLEANSER.
E: I did. It was evil.
M: I am going to tell the world you have a tiny cockstump. Residual, mind you.
E: Well, M. I might have a tiny cockstump, but I also have Oroisurkfmgjrsljtmseriz or whatever it’s called SPECIAL BLACK CLEANSER. Hang on, I’m going to get the pot, to torment you.
M: Oh, sacred Hungarian mud! blessed be thy cleansing powers!
E: So. “Omorovicza Thermal Cleansing Balm”, it’s called. “The best cleanser you will ever use!” says the website, which is not scared of hyperbole, apparently. But firstly, I’d like to say, it’s not actually black at all, as you promised me. It’s more of a charcoal grey.
M: On s’en fout. It’s elegant, classic, charcoal grey.
E: Next, it smells …. expensive. That’s the word, expensive.
M: How expensive?
E: Stupidly expensive, M. Forty six of your English pounds. Oh, I’ve looked it up, apparently that’s the “surprising whiff of orange blossom”. Whiffy orange blossom doesn’t come cheap. It has the texture of, I dunno, what’s greasy and expensive? Sturgeon?
M: Yup. Or foie gras. Or a fat oligarch’s wife.
E: Yeah! It has the texture of a fat oligarch’s wife who has gorged on foie gras, and the scent of a limited edition Diptyque candle. It comes with a little spoon, like caviar.
(disclaimer: I have never bought caviar)
(but I hear it comes with a spoon)
And if you are really really rich – stroke – stupid, you can also buy an entirely plain white flannel with Osueitryiutyeskjthselet written on it to wash your face with for ten quid. You’d have to be REALLY stupid to do that *hides flannel*.
M: That’s all very well, dear, but tell me. TELL ME. Does it work?
E: Hmm. Define “work”
M: Does it hoover out all the bad shit and make your skin all glowy and baby soft and smooth?
E: Well, firstly it is fabulously easy and I like that. Tiny spoonful, smear it quickly all over your face including eye area. Warm flannel (need not be Oxwzrwjczajaja branded). Et voilà, even gets crusty old eyeliner off first time. Now, for the first few days I had a shitload of blemishes, which might suggest the special volcanic goodness is doing its thing. Then again, it might have been my diet of Marks & Spencer caramel bunnies and hot dogs.
M: But are the blemishes staying?
E: No, all gone. My skin is clear and soft. It’s not drying, it’s not harsh. But is it the holy grail? I dunno.
M: Hmmmm. HMMMM, I tell you.
E: Maybe we should give it more time?
M: “We”? “WE”???
E: Me and the homemade mannequin of you I keep in my wardrobe.
M: Aaaaaaaargh, is it like my skin, but stuffed with old tights?
E: That’s exactly what it’s like M. Now come here while I put this stiletto through your eye.
M: By “stiletto”, I hope you mean “thermal cleansing balm”, and by “through your eye”, I hope you mean “gentle facial”. Punk.
Omorovicza thermal cleansing balm, £45
Do you want to know what’s in the nefarious black pouch? Well, do you, PUNK?
Head on over to London Beauty Review to read our guest review of Sheer Cover minerals. Go on. Do it. NOW.
M: I had a makeover at Bare Minerals.
E: Ah! A makeover! Women at a department store counter telling you you suit autumnal tones and forcing product upon you? Free gift with two purchases one must be skincare, have this pleather pochette with tiny versions of shit you’ll never use? That kind of makeover?
M: No, not at all. In this makeover, I sat on a high zebra print chair, watching a video of happy flawless American women swirling brushes over their faces. Two powdery women stared at mine, dabbing streaks of powder on me, trying to choose a colour. They looked perplexed. And I really needed to pee.
E: Of course, because of ALWAYS NEEDING TO PEE. I think there were only 4 minutes of today when I didn’t need to pee.
M: It’s weird, the mineral powderiness. It just sits there, and then it warms up and starts to go creamy.
E: Creamy is good though?
E: But it sort of covers up the badness, no? When I saw I had advanced leprosy this afternoon, the first thing I did was try and exorcise it with Laura Mercier Mineral Powder.
M: You would have made a terrible Jesus. In fact, it’s a bit like a cult. There is a leaflet, which says “Your skin will love you for this”. My skin, the perennial atheist, disagrees. With the powder on, I realized how dry it truly was. Like one of those National Geographic overhead shots of the DESERT.
E: Oh. Yes. The first time I put the Laura Mercier on it looked like that. But then I got used to it, and someone at a party told me I had NO PORES when I was wearing it, so I haven’t parted with it since. Apparently it’s all in the application and the teeny tiny quantity. Mme India Knight is going to do us a masterclass on mineral powder application soon. She has promised. Possibly in the style of an Avatar make up tutorial.
M: Lines. lines everywhere!
E: That would be all the water. Thanks for that, water, you dick, for making us look like aged crones.
M: Yeah, thanks a lot, asshole. Anyway, my face is itching now. It feels like tiny people are sticking tiny needles into my large tiny nostrils.
E: You’re not really selling this. Not that you are supposed to be. I’m just desperate for something positive in my watery misery.
M: Positive, eh? My sister said I was “glowing”.
E: That IS good. She only usually likes kittens.
M: The other sister. The one who ran around Superdrug for half an hour painting rainbow colours onto her nails. She is used to seeing me bare faced and haggard, so anything’s an improvement, I suppose.
E: Even so, let’s be positive. You got ‘glowing’. I got ‘no pores’. There’s something in this mineral stuff. I wonder if it’s one of those things that looks better on someone else? Like, you can’t see the magic when you’re wearing it yourself.
M: I look grey in the living room mirror which is normally very forgiving. Is that what you mean by magic? Grey. It’s not the best shade.
E: It’s nice for jumpers. Less so for faces.
M: Hmmmm. The counter lady gave me a sample with another colour and a tiny brush. She was weird, like some sort of Bare Minerals drone. SWIRL TAP BUFF. SWIRL TAP BUFF. DOES NOT COMPUTE. Like her brain had been scooped out and replaced with finely milled powder in a dizzying array of shades.
E: It probably has. But tiny brush! Tiny things are good. I am so positive tonight, I must be having a psychotic episode.
M: God, my face itches, I’m going to have to take this off. And her brush shed ALL OVER my coat! Tiny little hairs everywhere.
E: Oh dear oh dear. Like a nervous dog but without the unconditional love and the bed warming.
M: So. Bare Minerals: creepy evangelical desert dust that makes your face both glowy and itchy. I’ll try again with the sample but I’m not convinced.
BareMinerals SP15 foundation £19.99