It turns out that people want you to wear makeup when you’re on T.V. even if you’re on T.V. for half a second like me.
I couldn’t be worse at this if I lacked opposable thumbs.
For one thing, the last time I wore foundation was at my wedding. I bought a bottle specifically for the occasion. Fortunately for me, it’s still more or less the consistency of makeup some six years later. I have the same tube of mascara from the nuptials, too; although I did buy another yesterday for fear of pink eye or leprosy or Ebola.
(Ebola, in case you’re interested, causes your organs to liquefy and leak out your orifices “usually resulting in death.” I looked it up. “Usually resulting in death” was an interesting turn of phrase. It sort of implies there might be an occasion where liquefying organs is okay or, at least, a sort of chronic condition like asthma. But I digress.)
I paint the foundation on with a brush like the lady in the department store told me. Let’s just say I didn’t major in art and leave it at that. Not that it’s going to stay where I put it. Thus begins the 723 times I’ll get it on something – my clothes, your clothes, the gaffer’s shoe laces, the security guard’s name tag. You can follow me around set by the smattering of beige smears I leave behind. And what I don’t wipe off settles into the crow’s feet I didn’t know I had until I started pouring makeup in them. That’s always encouraging, especially in Hollywood.
But it’s not all doom and gloom. Two days ago, a makeup artist told me I didn’t have to wear lipstick. Ever. I have naturally photogenic lips. I nearly humped his leg in gratitude. The only thing I have to reapply more than foundation is lipstick, which, it turns out, collects cookie crumbs. While tasty, this does tend to upset people paid to care about these things.
And when it comes to eyeliner, we just won’t speak of it.
No, we won’t.
I said we won’t.