Jesus didn’t want me to get that job at Lancôme

Jesus didn’t want me to get that job at Lancôme

Jesus didn’t want me to get that job at Lancôme. Least that’s what I told myself on my way out of the store. I was smiling, can you believe it. I know you’ve got something else for me, Lord, I say, walking towards my car, uncharacteristically coiffed hair and full face of makeup bristling under the reedy summer sun.

There wasn’t even a counter person job. Like. I mean. I didn’t just make up a job posting to apply to, good a story as that would make.

She wasn’t — she wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup. I brought some samples of my work…if you’d like to…see them? I trail off, noting the mildly horrified sneer she’s trying vainly to suppress.

“Oh I don’t…work in makeup.”

I don’t text my boyfriend. Don’t know what to say. Don’t feel that bad. Not yet. Don’t know how to say it. Applied for non-existent job but it’s going to be okay?

She liked me. I have to keep telling myself that. “No, that’s a really good way of putting it,” she says. Says “are you set on cosmetics, or are there other areas..?” oh sure, other areas, ya. She liked me enough to go check and see if there were any apparently real jobs I could be considered for. “We’ve got a counter position at [expurgatory rumbling noise],” she says. “Oh, [expurgatory rumbling noise],” I say. “Ya, ya, oh thank you very much.”

I mean, it’s not like I made up a job posting. Good a story as that would be.

[Expurgatory rumbling noise] makes my favorite perfume. At least I’d have that to talk about in an interview. ’Course, I could come up with something to talk about in any cosmetics counter interview. Makeup doesn’t suck, which is something. It’s something I feel like I could sell right to your face and not feel too bad about it.

Right to your face. Hh.

Didn’t take the time to pat the foundation in with my fingers, used a sponge. A dry sponge, like a goddamned drag queen. Used to be a drag queen. Did this beautiful natural makeup two days before, applied all the base products with my fingers, looked seamless and breathy. “Thinking of wearing this makeup to the interview.” “Are you wearing makeup?”

Success. See, I think most people would rather hear “you have nice skin” than “you have nice makeup.”

I make an exfoliating mask from sugar and olive oil and gently pat it onto my face, carefully avoiding the delicate area around the eye. I leave it on for the time it takes to rub one boyfriend foot and then rinse, making tender circles so the slippy sugar can lift away dead skin cells as it goes. I also apply generously and rub vigorously around the skin of my lips. Having thoroughly rinsed in cold water and applying a small dab of your favorite moisturizer and the normally knobbly skin of my cheek is touch this soft. I also:

  • apply coconut oil with a cotton swab to my lips
  • tweeze my eyebrows probably better than I ever will again
  • apply an antibiotic ointment to an unfortunate blemish above my right brow

The thing is, I was expecting to be interviewing with someone who loved makeup professionally. I was prepared to present like my philosophical view of makeup, and she didn’t ask literally one makeup-related question. But it’s okay. Jesus didn’t want me to get that job.


Oh, turns out Jesus didn’t want me to get that job at [expurgatory rumbling noise] either, but [expurgatory rumbling noise] was just too good to cut.

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