Archive for the ‘Armoire Mondays’ Category

I’ve never paid much never-mind to the idea that beauty products “expire” the same way foods in our fridge and pantry do. Let’s put it this way: I once used a custom-blended powder blush for seven years. Sure, I’d misplace it for months at a clip. But I’d always re-find it, and then just dab it right back on again with nary a care in the world.

With the exception of liquid foundation and mascara, which do in fact need to be tossed-out on a regular basis, many beauty products can last a super long time – especially if you haven’t even cracked ‘em open yet. And that accounts for probably 90 percent of the contents of my Beauty Armoire. It’s just stuff that I figure I’ll get to eventually.

But most of the time, “eventually” never quite morphs into “now.”

Perhaps because I can feel work tugging at my skirt hem (translation: potential clients are reaching out to me, and I may just actually have to stop summering and commit to new projects pretty soon), I’m feeling a sense of urgency. I just want to throw out everything I own and start with a clean slate.

You know what’s really helpful when you need to go on a massive purging spree, but can’t begin to part with all your (allegedly) precious possessions? Watching an episode of Hoarders.

Oh my lordy. Recently, I listened to the endless rationales issuing forth from some poor lady who couldn’t bear the idea that all her started-and-abandoned crafts projects would be better off in the 50 dumpsters parked outside her home on the big day of reckoning. “Oh, I’m gonna make a coat for my dog with those carpet remnants,” she’d say to the hapless A&E crew assigned to liberate her from all her crapola. Or, “I really don’t think 40 boxes of buttons is too much.”

I’m paraphrasing, but you get the drift: It was the sound of someone who just couldn’t let go.

Of course I had mixed emotions as I watched the show, particulalry since I recently did re-start crafts projects of my own that I’d abandoned. (My knitting, which I’m completely ga-ga about now…) But I’m talking three or so little yarn kits; not the 3 million projects Hoarder Lady had tucked into every nook and cranny of her about-to-be-condemned California home.

I don’t want to be the beauty-product equivalent of Hoarder Lady, even though I’m sure she’s like the nicest broad on the planet once you get to know her.

Nice is great. Crazy-organized and nice? Even better.

Recently, on behalf of Cosmetic Executive Women, I had the good fortune to interview several brills ladies who are running some of the biggest beauty brands around. Intimidating, yes – they’re firing on all cylinders in a brutally competitive business. But what a treat. I learned so much from chatting with them.

And one of my interview victims, who happens to be the U.S. president of the much-beloved Kérastase line, sent me packing with a fat bag of Chroma Riche products. Ultra-hydrating, they’re specifically formulated for colored locks like mine.

If only…I knew how to use them. Because now, more than ever, I really need them. After I don’t know how many years of straight-up single-process blonde, I decided to throw highlights into the mix on Friday. And already, I can tell that my hair is going to be much more dried-out.

So I’m determined to figure out the exact sequence of my new Chroma Riche regime. What’s the big deal, you ask? Well, for starters, I was gifted with both a shampoo and a Cleansing Balm. And now, in reading the website, I see that I’m supposed to use the Cleansing Balm for the first three washings post-color.

Oops! I already used the shampoo this morning. But of course it’s really high-quality Frenchy French stuff, so it’s not like I dumped a box of Tide over my head.

Actually, this website is really helpful! Who knew? There are three basic steps with Chroma Riche: Cleanse, Treat and Protect. I’ve got the cleansing thang firmly under control. So all I need to do now is dig into my trusty stash of loot and figure out which are the Treaters and which are the Protecters.

I can do this. I am a brave, smart, highlighted and single-processed Mommy Person.

At some point during Road Trip 2011, the Wee Lass looked across the room of whatever fine dining establishment we were gracing at that moment and scrunched her face up into a big ol’ pity ball.

“That poor, poor woman,” she said, grimacing and covertly pointing a tiny five-year-old finger at some broad at a nearby table. “She must be soooooo sad.”

“What on Earth makes you say that?” inquired Momover Lady.

“Well just look at all that gray hair!”

Instantaneously, the next 15 years of my life flashed in front of me. And I’m guessing it’s basically wall-to-wall beauty maintenance from here on out.

During the spring and early summer, when I was trucking into the offices of an über-magazine every day, I kept myself to a strict every-three-weeks color schedule. With so much work to be done, I didn’t want the distraction (or confidence-busting) of gray roots mocking me every time I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror.

But I was kinda hoping that circa right about now, I could relax a bit and revert to my typical monthly salon trek.

Fat freaking chance with Little Miss Pity Party hanging ’round and eyeballing me.

If only I didn’t have so much “backstory,” as they say in Tinsel Town. But oh, I do. You see, my mother had me when she was in her late 30s – which was about as rare in 1960s Oklahoma as a T Rex thundering down Main Street.

Compared to my friends’ moms, who, I kid you not, were at most 20 years older than us, my mother looked positively ancient. Yes, she was chic; totally and utterly. But she kept her hair in a short, New England-y pixie (she was born and raised in Fairfield), and when it went gray, she just let Mama Nature have at it.

I remember feeling extremely self-conscious about that, as stupid as that seems now. I guess I yearned for a mother with long, fake brunette locks and the groovy bell-bottoms to go with. For my mom to look like everybody else’s. To fit in.

Of course I’m not suggesting that anyone follow beauty dictates from the pint-sized people-persons in our midst; even I don’t intend to do that. I’ve been coloring my hair for years, ever since I spotted a few stray grays way back in my mid-20s. Call me crazy, but a full head of silver wasn’t anything I felt like signing on for that early in the game.

It still isn’t. So this morning, as I dabbed my hairline with my preferred root camouflage – my trusty Roux Fanci-Full Rinse in Spun Sand – I made a mental note to keeping booking my every-three-weeks appointments. For me and the Wee Lass. I think that’s probably a win-win all the way around.

Day four of Road Trip 2011: Heartland America. We’re in gorge downtown Chicago as I try to peck this blog post out on Hubby’s eensy weensy Mac Air. Jiminy Christmas, it’s like a Polly Pockets version of a laptop.

So please forgive me if I start writing like this jadfhaifhiauhfeiourhaieuhjhvbufg all of a sudden.

Anyway, here’s what’s going super-duper well on this cross-country trek so far: my beauty regimen. Just goes to show you that the only thing standing between me and amazing skin is a solid hour bookending my day for my elaborate morning and evening toilettes, as the French say.

Basically I’ve been doing everything Dr. Brandt told me to do a month ago, including deploying as much of the Refissa as my complexion can take, and then using some of his really excellent whitening products to dislodge stubborn brown spots and other bits of sun damage.

So before breakie and beddy bye, I’ve been loading up on his Light Years Away Whitening Essence layered under Light Years Away Whitening Cream. The latter is in such a schmancy giant Lucite-y jar that the ONLY way I could drag it on vacay is if we were traveling via Lexus SUV, which we are. (Road trips are so, so, so brills if you’re prone to overpacking, as I am.)

Hubby is getting antsy to reclaim his miniature computer, so I have to sign off now. But not before saying how GREATLY improved my mug is looking, even after this relatively short stint of hardcore beauty TLC.

I have a love / hate relationship with tripping.

In the love corner: Seeing new sights; getting out from underneath the daily grind; staying in really nice hotels.

In the hate corner: Feeling like the house needs to be spotless before we leave and that every little work matter has to be tied up with a bow; the guilt over boarding Thunder and Lightning at the (perfectly lovely, but still…) Cat Practice when we’re going on lengthy jaunts; packing.

Je deteste packing.

I’ve tried to analyze why I hate packing so much, and I think the main reason is that I hate to be faced with wardrobe limitations. I like options. Lots and lots of them. You know how some broads pick out their outfit the night before work? I don’t do that, because I never know how I’m going to feel, and what I’m gonna want to wear, until 5 minutes prior to heading out the door.

Beauty packing is a little easier. But not a lot easier. Perhaps if I weren’t such a beauty hoarder it would be a seamless, two-minutes-max kinda job.

But I am, so it isn’t.

Making the task even harder for this trip: We’re driving in the wheels pictured here, so I can basically lug as much stuff as I want. None of this Federal Aviation Regulations 3-ounce bull—t. So guess what? I’ve decided to go overboard and catch up on all the pampering that’s gone missing in recent months.

So I’m bringing…

1. My body brush so I can dry-brush my skin to de-flake, boost my immunity and give the spideys the boot

2. My beloved jump rope so I can keep the flab at bay (especially since I’m sure I’ll be cocktailing and eating my fair share of dodgy stuff)

3. My entire range of skincare Dr. Brandt prescribed for me in advance of my July face tune-up, including his extremely cool Detoxygen Experience Oxygenating Facial

4. My Refissa, also prescribed for me by Dr. Brandt

5. My arsenal of sunscreens, including the Lancôme Bienfait UV, because the Refissa makes you mad-photosensitive

OMG, look at this list already. And I haven’t even gotten to hair and makeup. Such a nutty beauty junkie…

Yesterday evening, as we were waiting for the check and stealing the last few bites of dinner at one our favorite resties in Hoboken, the Wee Lass snuck outside while we weren’t looking. She didn’t go far, but when I found her, she was sitting on the sidewalk in full Lotus pose, hands on knees.

“Um, just what might you be doing?” I queried. “Meditating, Mom,” she said, as if every five-year-old kid on the planet just plunks herself on a busy New Jersey street in search of inner peace. Om…

When we got back home, she zipped right up to my office and into my walk-in closet to paw through this shoe cubby that I’ve devoted to crystals, my ocean-soundtrack meditation CDs and some other Zen gew gaws, like stones carved with the words “Peace” and “Forgive.”

Specifically, she was in search of the best meditation tool of all time: the “removable sound box” that I basically ripped from the innards of her Sleep Sheep. And although she closed the door for her meditation session, I could clearly hear that she’d put it on “Mother’s Heartbeat” and cranked it up as loud as it would go. (I didn’t have the heart to tell her that extremely loud noise kinda defeats the purpose of zoning-out…)

So where am I going with all this? In short, I miss all the nightly rituals – of both a spiritual and superficial nature – that I’ve let go of this year because A) I was obsessed with P90X and it completely absconded with my free time and B) I accepted a whopper of an in-house magazine gig that absconded with all my other free time once the P90X ended.

Watching the Wee Lass fake-meditate made me realize how much I miss doing it myself, as well as the elaborate nightly beauty ritual I use to devote myself to that IS SO UTTERLY RELAXING THAT I CAN’T BELIEVE I STOPPED DOING IT during this period of brutal, self-pity-party-throwing stress.

I haven’t been dry-brushing my skin on a regular basis. I haven’t been dabbing my wrists with yummy patchouli-spiked fragrances to trigger sound sleep. I haven’t been meditating. And more recently, I haven’t been consistent with the skincare regimen Dr. Brandt put me on in advance of my big summer face renovation. Even though when I use his amazing potions, I already look about five years younger. (More on the regimen in another post…)

I need to get back to all these systems, these rituals, these little hits of pampering that make me both feel and look better.

That should be me plunked down on that Hoboken sidewalk, not my crazy, stress-free-and-naturally-gorgeous tot. Om, indeed.

I’m dating myself, but I’ve been a beauty editor long enough to have been given eyelining lessons by the one and only Trish McEvoy herself. She’s a legend, her products are gorgeous and her beauty book is, I think, completely best of breed. It just makes you want to paint yourself.

Ironically, however, it’s another super-duper beauty book – The Makeup Wakeup – that had me thinking of Trish recently, and her famous eyelining technique. Wakeup, which was written by rock star makeup artist Sandy Linter, and a beauty editor pal of mine – Lois Joy Johnson - is aimed at oldies-but-goodies like moi, and it is so good.

One of the big takeaways from Sandy and Lois’s book is that lining your eyes well is über-important as you get up there in years because you totes need the definition – waaaaaay more than your 20-year-old daughter, who rings her eyes so heavily that she’s doing a stunning impression of a cute little raccoon rousting around in the picnic baskets at Jellystone Park.

Okay, I’ll buy that. I need liner. But in what format, I ask?

I do very much love my Noir pencil, because it’s soft and doesn’t “skip” and drag the way some harder pencils do. And when I’m in a rush, that’s my default liner, for sure.

But when I have an extra minute or two, I break out my Trish eyelining brush and a little pot of jet black powder shadow and I mentally dial back about 15 years – to those lessons with the ultimate makeup maven. As I recall, her technique was very elaborate, and entailed bringing your arm up and over your head while looking in the mirror and making a dotted line across the lash line of your upper lid.

I don’t do the up and over business, and for all I know, she doesn’t even teach it that way anymore. And I pretty much skip the lower lid altogether. (No sense drawing any attention to undereye wrinklies and crinklies, I say.)

But I do really like Trish’s connect the dots approach. It is such a pretty look. Utterly polished -  and defined.

I’m one lucky puppy. Trust me that I know this, although my favorite past-time of late has been to bitch and moan like a rock star who didn’t get his precious purple M&Ms and case of Jägermeister in his dressing room, per the bullet-proof rider in his contract.

I have a lot of good things in my life. Not enough time to enjoy them right now, but at least I know they’re there.

So it in this upbeat, gratitude-y spirit that I will now relay to you what has gone down in the past 72 hours.

On Friday, during my visit to Dr. Brandt, he rawther sternly tsk-tsked me when I told him that I don’t wear sunscreen on my face religiously. Not brills, given the multiple skin cancer biopsies I’ve had over the years, not to mention the tiny chunk taken out of my forehead where an actinic keratosis was removed.

But, hey, at least I was honest, right? Many a less-brave mama than I would have straight-up lied to the dude.

Since he wanted to prescribe the Refissa for me (I’m only on Day 3 but I am in LOVE…), he made me promise that I would wear really strong sunscreen, at least 45 SPF, because any kind of Retin-A makes your skin much more susceptible to burning.

Grrr, I thought, do I even own such a potion? I’m more of an 8 girl myself. (Hence all the skin cancer biopsies…)

Today at lunch with my pal Patricia, a Lancôme public relations honcho and beauty savant, who just so happens to have co-written Dr. Brandt’s first book, she handed me a bag packed with goodies, including Génefique (the new youthifier you see in all those Kate Winslet ads). And Star Bronzer bronzing powder and Flash Bronzer tinted self-tanning body gel, so I can get my glow on.

And best of all, a Lancôme classic: Bienfait. The UV version. SPF 50+, thank you very much. Now Dr. B will have to find another sunscreen slacker to tsk tsk.

It’s official: I have Gizmo Guilt.

Right now, here are all the beauty gadgets that I’ve started using in recent months, but have temporarily abandoned because my crack-a-lackin work schedule has cratered my precious personal grooming time:

1. My NuFace

2. My Neckline Slimmer

3. My cheapy riff on a Clarisonic

4. My Neutrogena battery-operated foot- and chest-microdermabrasion thingamajig

If my great friend Tina, Beauty-Marketing Guru Extraordinaire, were sitting in front of me right now, she would tell me that I have “compliance” issues. In other words, I’m not using my get-gorgeous stuff, so it can’t do me a lick of good.

That’s the problem with all these gizmos, she says. Women get all hopped-up about ‘em, thinking they’re gonna change their lives. And then after a week, they’re collecting dust in that big black hole under the bathroom sink.

Aaah…but then you can just yank them back out again when your schedule lightens a bit, right? That’s what I’m banking on.

Besides, in the meantime, I’ve been pretty faithful to the best, best, best beauty gadget of all time. I’m not kidding. It. Is. The. Bomb.

Early last month, right after we got back from our slamming little Jamaican vacay, I decided I wanted to do a little sprucing up, so I booked a light chemical peel with one of my fave derms, Debra Jaliman.

I’ve had loads of antioxidant peels administered by Debra, and they are great great great. So I was looking forward to my office visit, which was long overdue.

Except that I was in deep denial. I had let my face get a little sunburned (bad, bad Momover Lady) on our trip, and I didn’t think it would be smart to add acid to the equation.

I reluctantly unbooked. And now my schedule is completely bananas, and there’s no way I can carve out the time to get in to see her for weeks and weeks.

After throwing myself a little pity party (I always get sad when my calendar gets packed like sardines in a tin can), I decided to rally and do my own DIY skin sloughing by stepping up my usage of my Colbert MD Intensify Facial Discs.

Love. They’re a little grittier and rougher than a peel pad, which makes all the sense in the world because they’re actually for microdermabrasion rather than peeling. And also, if I were using them correctly – by rinsing them first rather than just sand-papering at full strength – I’m sure they’d be perfectly gentle.

Still, I’m finding that my complexion is responding really well to these little numbers, which are laced with lactic acid and pineapple enzyme. For a blue-eyed, fair-skinned creature, I’m kind of a tough cookie.