Years ago, when I was a young pup in college, I worked part time at a local department store behind the beauty counter. It was perhaps ironic that I sought employment in the beauty industry while studying feminism and gender norms, but for me at the time, nothing could have been more apropos, and looking back, it was exactly where I was supposed to be.
This was the first time in my life where my peers were of different ages, and while I was a sort of naive mascot for these women, I soon learned that I was basking in a fountain of wisdom. These ladies were nothing like the carpooling “room moms” and field trip chaperones that made up the women of my childhood. They talked to me like the quasi-adult that I was, and as they did, I learned about their divorces and custody settlements, their mortgages, and grown-up dating life. I learned about comfortable shoes, and vacations to tropical islands. I learned about making commission, sharing commission, and what to do about those that were stealing commissions. These women were out on their own, many without husbands or partners, and they were survivors. Every day I learned more about and from the fascinating cast of characters that made up the cosmetic department.
There was Denise who waxed poetically about Armand Assante, had a Mr. Big-like romance with her handsome, single neighbor, and insisted that I could never understand love without first seeing Love Story. She explained all about the Clarins Bust Care products, and informed me that French women (and others in the know) smooth these products down their décolletage, and all over their “beautiful French breasssts.”
Then there was the formidable Renee, who was always around and often terrifying. She had the artful ability of weaving the most cutting remark into a seemingly polite sentence. She instructed me on how to tie the perfect bow on a gift wrapped fragrance while spouting off facts that I can still recite today. “Chanel COCO Body Cream contains 1/4 ounce of pure parfum. This makes it an incredible value and is one of the best ways to wear fragrance, since it requires no product layering.” Oh, and she schooled me in the art of fragrance “layering,” which is actually how perfumes are meant to be worn. She knew her stuff–and she had to, because she was supporting her children, step-children, and an unemployed, but soap opera handsome second husband.
Everyone’s favorite was Josie, who served as the caregiver to her elderly parents when she wasn’t working. She was perpetually melancholy but always kind. Her compliments were sincere, because she instantly saw the best in each person that she encountered. She patiently taught me how to custom blend foundation–pointing out the often overlooked green and blue undertones in skin. Because of Josie, I can quickly glance at anyone’s skin and immediately know the foundation shade I will need for the makeup application.
It was common for all of the women to bestow upon me advice for this or that, and the counter manager of the Estée Lauder was no exception. Helen was a tall, handsome woman, with a sculpted ginger coif, and an aesthetic that would remind you of Endora from Bewitched. Her navy blue tent dress, which was the requisite Lauder uniform of the time, made her look even more statuesque and otherworldly. And she was.
She’s the one that instilled in me to always address the customer directly–never the accompanying husband or boyfriend. The reason for this is that even the most innocent remark can be interpreted as flirting. She explained the science behind self-tanner, and tried to dissuade me from dating tattooed punk rock boys, because, as she frankly put it, “They have no jobs.” One day, when she was feeling particularly generous with advice, she picked up three red lipsticks, and said, “If someone comes to your counter looking for a red lipstick, don’t just direct them to the 20 shades of red on the counter. Pick three. A blue red, an orange red, and a neutral red, and hand them to the customer.”
Somehow, the smugness of my youth did not overrule. I took the advice. I tried the advice. I soon learned that if given less choices, the customer would feel more comfortable and make a purchase.
I still turn to this advice in my work as a makeup artist today. I show the talent my small palette of lipstick and ask what shade looks the most appealing. It’s a helpful starting point, and makes the person in my chair know that the makeup application is a collaboration. When your client realizes that comfort and confidence is the main priority, the process immediately becomes more relaxing.
Perhaps this is a somewhat circuitous way to write about lipstick, but I suppose that I am trying to express that while we can adorn ourselves with cosmetic preparations, there is a certain beauty that comes from taking advice, both for the mentor and mentee.
This lesson that I learned at the beauty counter–the ability to be the student at any age, and even now as a mid-career makeup artist, has been one of the most beneficial things for my personal and professional growth. Let yourself be seen as a person with things to learn. See the beauty in those with experience. Quietly listen as they speak. Take the advice. Try the advice. Humbly listen to what people with experience are telling you. There is a beauty in this that runs so deeply that it just may change you forever. And you just might find that perfect lipstick, too.