The Gene Wilder version, not Johnny Depp.
That's the best way to describe it. My face looked like that of an old-school Oompa Loompa. Actually, my face was the color of an Oompa Loompa.
Let me explain.
I've been in the mood to punch up my personal style a bit because I've been in a rut. My hair has been as stylish as a bird's nest and my make-up - or lack of it - reflects an un-me meh attitude.
So I got a haircut early yesterday morning with a new stylist at a salon I'd never been to before. Yes, I cheated on my regular stylist. It's not her, it's me. I haven't been communicating well with her. I haven't been trying to keep the magic alive. I put my personal needs above our shared needs. And I hate to admit it, but I liked the allure of someone new. I wanted to see what it was like.
... ahem ... Anyway ...
I brought in a picture of what I had in mind: I wanted to go short. My hair was a drab medium-length I-don't-know-what-I-want-so-let's-do-this boring middle-aged mom cut. And I was ready to be bold; to pull back the curtain that my hair was allowing me to hide behind and put this face front and center.
I kind of look like a boy now.
Okay, not really, but it was shorter than I had expected. But I like it. As does my husband, judging by the way he keeps kissing my neck.
Too much? Sorry.
Anyway, part 2 of sprucing up my look was to involve some make-up upgrades. So yesterday afternoon, I approached the make-up counter at a retailer and asked the saleslady if she could recommend a neutral-ish eye shadow for me, explaining that I don't wear much make-up, but would like an everyday shadow.
An hour and a half later, I looked like a native of Loompaland.
And I had spent $113.
Ouch.
Though I never mentioned being in the market for foundation, she immediately asked, "Is your face always so red?"
Um, no.
I suddenly felt self-conscious and I let her cake a thick coat of dark spackling paste all over my face. And the thing is, it looked good in the mirror ... in that lighting. So I let her work her magic.
But as soon as I joined my husband in the car - in normal daylight - and saw the what-the-heck-happened-to-you look on his face, I snapped down the passenger-side mirror and was horrified. Orange. I was orange.
Oompa Loompa. Except they actually have longer hair than I do now.
I should have known something was terribly wrong when I tried to smile and felt my face crack.
So, I am taking back the unused make-up I bought and getting a big chunk of money refunded. But I am keeping the eye shadow and the blush because they work at about one-quarter the amount she had painted on me. Considering how very little I actually need to use and the quality of the product, I will come out ahead financially in the long run.
The third leg of my spruce-me-up/treat-myself weekend was to involve the purchase of a new outfit. But I thought I would just quit while I was ahead, for fear of what my good intentions might end up costing me, both in cash and in appearance.
Because, while there is nothing wrong with wanting to improve oneself, sometimes we have to know when to leave well enough alone and just be happy. Just as we are.
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