On the topic of the bags under my eyes: stop pointing out that they’re there! I am aware. I will continue to refer to them as genetic heirlooms care of my maternal genes. This has only been further propelled by a funny story I cannot believe I’ve yet to share with you.
The summer after my junior year in high school, I moonlit as a secretary at a plastic surgeon’s office on Fifth Avenue in the upper 80s. The job paid $500 a week. This paled in comparison to the sheer pricelessness of the awkward confrontations with a handful of my mother’s acquaintances, who came in for facial augmentation consultations, day in and out. About a week into my job, the surgeon under which I was working asked for a favor. He’d just purchased a new camera and wanted to test it out. He took some quick head shots and dismissed me back to my chamber.
That’s the end of the story.
Until two months after I resigned as secretary to reassume my position as high school student, when my mother’s cousin called to inform her that she’d visited the surgeon’s office for an injection of some sort. She noticed in his office, on his computer screen, a large image of my face blown up.
“Hey! That’s my cousin’s daughter! What is she doing on your screen?” She begged.
“Oh, don’t worry, she’s not summoning my services.” He explained, “This picture is just here to portray that, look, even this pretty 17 year-old-girl has enormous bags under her eyes. They’re totally genetic.”
Though I hate to admit that a man has impacted the way in which I’ve regarded myself, I remember stopping at CVS on my way home from school the following day in pursuit of under-eye concealer. Ultimately though, I forewent the product. Every version clocked in at upwards of $10 and without the additional $500 per week in my pocket, I needed my allowance for California Pizza Kitchen and Zara and far more important things like that.
Instead, I went home and ransacked my mother’s beauty cabinet. Though she’d clearly forewent concealer too, I did come upon a dusty MAC eyeshadow compact that looked like it had never been used. Once I opened it and learned the eyeshadow in question was white, I understood why it sat untouched: the 80s had ended at least ten years prior. But then I thought, hey! Here’s a good alternative to concealer and I never looked back.
Though I am sure most makeup pundits would scoff at my thrifty trick, I will admit that I have since tried the sporadic illuminator or concealer. It just seems like none of them do the job quite as well as white eyeshadow does and while that MAC shadow is long finished, I’ve recently taken to a hue from the new Marc Jacobs beauty line.
Application is easy. Using your middle finger, gently dab the shadow two or three times until you’ve accrued a thick enough coat to apply in pats to the inner corners of your eyes. Smooth the white out through the length of your bags et voila: take that, shady plastic surgeon. And I didn’t even need your services.
As you can see, I have not been very good about filling in my once robust, now miserably stealthy brows.