Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Not 24 hours into my breakup misery with Jess, I got a call from the Stila counter at your friendly neighbourhood overpriced department store. Makeover time! I remember listening to the bubbly salesgirl recite her very rehearsed schpiel, thinking, why can't you people just fuck off and let me die in peace, when I caught something that made me retract. "Excuse me, but what was that last bit?"

"Oh!" she said, "we do one eye."

"Come again?"

Giggle. This was very exciting for her. "The makeup artist just does the one eye, and then shows you how to do the other eye yourself, so you can go home and be able to use the technique.

I booked an appointment.

Makeup and me have a sketchy past. Being a tomboy I didn't care for the stuff until later, by which time all my peers were mini Maybellines. Mom almost never wore makeup, in fact all she owned was one Estee Lauder lipstick. Oli and I weren't allowed to wear makeup at all unless our few modeling jobs required it, and even the tips I'd picked up there involved thunderbolt cheeks in various shades of peach.

Therefore, even though I have finally become female and do have a sizeable makeup bag, it's rare that I can do anything funky with it. That, and I'm lazy. I tend to stick to the holy trinity of cosmetology, by which one can never go wrong: Lips, Lashes, Lids. Gloss, mascara & eyeliner.

That was my main reason for making that appointment. Second, very big reason is that I'm single again. Now that it's super clear I'm back in the dating trenches, how can I hope for single *and* fabulous without even a hint of colour?

So last Thursday, I trudged my sorry, makeup-less ass to the mall, sat down on the bar stool, and listened to the anxiety in my head. Makeovers are usually nightmares. Remember that one time the Cargo girl made you look like a clown? Or when the MAC chick was a lesbian and all but molested you in the chair? You should have known better than to come here!

Just as I'd decided to make a run for the border, along came Sandra. Sassy Sandra, makeup lady who, right off, did something no other makeup artist has ever done. She looked me square in the eye and said, "So what do you like today?"

It took me a second to realize that not only was she talking to me, but that apparently, I had a choice in what was about to happen. Taking advantage of this golden opportunity, I decided to cut right to the chase.

"Look, I'm going to be totally honest with you. I'm out of the loop. I almost never wear makeup, I'm really rusty, and I have zero patience. I need funky, low maintenance tricks that can be done on the fly, and are also completely idiot proof. Because when it comes to makeup, I'm an idiot."

I think it took her a few seconds to process. At first I thought I'd been a little too blunt and freaked her out until, lo and behold, a big smile lit up her face. "Well, perfect! I can do that. But before we begin, why don't you tell me what you do know how to do."

Fuck. Embarassing time. I held up one of her many tools. "I know this is a brush."

Sandra looked at me like I'd fallen off the edge of Planet Loser. I didn't blame her. "We've got some cobwebs to get rid of, don't we?" I nodded, she handed me a mirror, made me pick out some colours and then said, "Pay attention!"

It was to work like this: I held a mirror in my right hand, while Sandra, bit by bit, made up my left eye. The palette I'd chosen had three colours in it, a light bronzy sheer, army camouflage green, and a brown the colour of my hair. "Take this brush," she said, and handed me a semi-big stick with a number 5 on the handle.

Sandra liberally ran her #5 through the sheer colour, then came at my left eyelid and dabbed like a woman on fire. She applied the shadow to my entire lid, while I paid close attention in the mirror so that I could do the same thing when it was my turn.

That came soon enough. Finished with my left eye, Sandra held out the palette while I ran my brush through the shadow. "Now smear!" she commanded, "smear it all over!"

Smear I did. All over my right lid, I smeared the shadow. I smeared it and dammit, I liked it. That wasn't so bad, but the whole process had felt so alien I needed a second opinion. "How terrible?" I asked Sandra.

Instead, she had this 'I told you so' look written all over her face. "Pretty damn good! That wasn't so bad, now was it?"

Heck no. It hadn't been that bad at all.

For the next step, Sassy Sandra handed me a medium, double ended brush with a number 15 on it. She dipped hers into the camouflage, rubbing it back and forth while I watched. Makeup was starting to be fun again. She lined the bottom half of my left lid with the green, then made me do it with the right. I was still uncertain. "Awful? Unfit? Too gay to function?"

She made a 'pfft' noise. "You worry too much. Now try this." Another smaller, double ended brush with a number 28 on it was put into my hands. Sandra ran hers through the brown shadow, then did this liney thing on the bottom of my lid that made my eyes pop out. I boo-booed only very minimally on my turn, but Sandra kept cheering me on. "Just keep going, this is pretty hard to really screw up."

She was right, too. In 10 minutes flat, my right, amateurish eye looked almost identical to the professional left. And, after Sandra had finished applying some blush (thunderbolt free), mascara and lip gloss, she put the mirror in front of so I could see my whole face. "What do you think?"

Smiling back at me was a happy, funky 30-something chick with some good features made great. I looked absolutely rock star. "I'm pretty!" I squealed.

"Yeah you are!"

"And I'm a GIRL!"

She laughed. "A girl that has no excuse to not wear makeup anymore!"

I picked up the colours and the brushes along with some written instructions, just in case, and gave Sandra a big hug before I left. Definitely a positive experience.

I walked through the mall for a bit before jumping back on the train, going about with the confidence of a movie star. I think that looking single *and* fabulous makes you walk taller and be more noticeable in general, at least according to the small handful of fine young men who gave me a second glance. One, a hottie himself, looked at me from across the hall, and so I flashed him a million dollar smile. I almost missed it, the quiet "Wow" that came out of his mouth.

Thank you, darling.