Rouge Vulgarie

See this image? When I did for the first time it was larger than life on the side of a bus shelter and unashamedly I fell head over heels for the shade and made it my mission to buy this lipstick. I don’t often indulge, believe it or not; I am quite circumspect when it comes to the purchase of exclusive/luxury cosmetics but, this I had to have. And when I say mission, I mean EPIC mission.

It all started with a lunch time trip to DJ’s. This was when I was working for the banking Nazi’s and I had to steal lunch times away from my desk. A six block walk (in heels) later and I find myself being ignore by the bespoke cosmetician in a fitted Chanel uniform. With my humph on I turn on my heels and take my grumpy self to the less stylised Chanel counter at Myer. Here I finally find some service, smile - no, attention - yes.

I point to the photograph and in an uncharacteristically meek voice I say “I want that”. The po-faced assistant recognises my need and professionally settles me into a tall directors chair and goes about the task of applying said shade. In doing so she informs me that many women whom have shared my lipstick lust have found that the shade does not look the same on them. She hands me the mirror and I realise the same fate. Instead of the virgin blood stain I yearned for I look back at a corpse coloured woman wearing house paint. I sigh, yet hope is not lost. Out of nowhere she pulls the one... # 17 Orchidee. Not the one in the crafted photo but the one that turns me into the picture of youth I so desire... only it’s out of stock and they don’t know when they’ll get it back in.

And so my true mission begins. I rush back to work, card in hard with both shade and stock number written down. Come on inter webs, don’t fail me now. I learn that its out of stock EVERYWHERE. I turn work acquaintances into cosmetic secret agents, visiting their pharmacies and department stores in classier suburbs than the ones I live close to. My mother in-sin is on the job too. A friend has got a sister who is travelling to the US, she’s on the case too. Even Saphora fails to deliver. And then one day in November I happen past the Myer counter and there it is, sold, to me.... the highest bidder.

I cradle that puppy home. It is my treasure. I wait for the right time to wear it, which in this case was not ten minutes from sale and applied on public transport. I walk home feeling fabulous, strangers are looking at me. I must look like someone straight out of the Great Gatsby. I am so fucking glamorous right now.

I am met at the door by my every loving de-facto and his puzzled eyes. He cannot take his eyes of my lips. I wait for him to say something but nothing comes. Ever more self conscious I finally fish for a compliment but it never comes. I come down from the lipstick induced high met with the realisation that I either look like a grandmother or a hooker. A dead hooker, really, because my skin is so washed out I have the glow of a woman that has been decomposing in the drought affected Yarra for three days.

Instead of looking the picture of fucking cool that I invested the sum of a good night out on, I invest all my cool points on looking like a badly drawn self portrait of Rosie the Riveter.

I’m fucking devo. I can’t do lipstick. It’s like the time I tried vintage clothing. I bought a $5 paisley shirt from the ‘80s. It smelled like moth balls, made me itch, and it took me 6 hours of searching the local op shops and fighting junkies for the stock on the racks. I was grossed out because I know all the nasty things I do in my clothes and that most of the time, rather than smell like OMO, my clothes smell like the leftover linger of stir fry and Herbal Essences.

I never remember when I am wearing a lipstick. I don’t ‘blot’ my napkin I ‘rub’ my napkin and then look like I have a cold sore. I always end up with a nice layer on my front teeth if I haven’t already donated it to my coffee cup. How does Gewn Stefani and her fan look a likes do it? I can only deduce that because they are shiny and photogenic they are one with the devil. Seriously, though, you look very pretty but fuck off and die. I’m sorry, maybe I’m overreacting. I’m sorry. I just know that you are more dignified than I am. I know that you cross your legs more than I do. I know that you charmingly stain your ceramic coffee cups and blow attractive kisses in pictures.

You can have your model portfolio like facebook album. I’ve graduated to Vaseline or Blistex or whatever. End rant.