IN THE RUBRIC "COSMETIC" we study the contents of beauty cases, dressing tables and cosmetic cases of characters we are interested in - and show all this to you.
Interview: Margarita Virova
Photos: Alena Ermishina
I love, they always seem very beautiful to me
When I was fifteen, I had a friend about seven years older who loved to share wisdom from a height of twenty-two. Once he said: "A girl should not be beautiful, but be able to be beautiful." I was still too young then and did not know how to automatically turn off my hearing after the words "a girl must", so I listened to him - and then suddenly I remembered this phrase for the rest of my life. Now I think that my friend was actually trying to broadcast something reasonable and good. I love the idea that beauty is not an imperative, but a skill that you can use whenever you want.
Or not: I work as a correspondent and communicate a lot with a wide variety of people in a variety of places, so the ability to look as typical and non-annoying as possible is another skill that I have been lovingly honing for years. Ideally, I dream of being able to blend in with the situation, regardless of whether I was dragged to a press conference in the State Duma, whether I communicate with sex workers on a highway near Moscow, or run after the head of a village in a village near Ussuriisk.
In principle, my appearance is quite suitable for this, especially if I do not paint. Once, when I was going on another business trip off the beaten path, our security expert wrote from London (I work for the BBC) that he was worried that my colleague and I would be identified as visiting Muscovites and would inadvertently hit us in the head. “Don’t worry, I look very generic,” I sincerely reassured him: “Don't worry, I look absolutely average.”
Having experienced in different years of his life because of the legs ("too thin, not sexy"), hair ("too thin, no volume"), skin ("blushes too easily"), abdominal muscles ("absent"), priests (" not elastic enough”), nails (I don’t remember, but there was definitely something), by the age of twenty-five I realized that I was a beauty. Now I am latently worried that I need to do something to preserve my beauty, and cautiously approaching injection cosmetology.
The first experience was mesotherapy, when last summer I decided to do something with bags under my eyes. The effect was rather comic: immediately after the procedure, the face each time looked as if I had gone all out the night before. Literally: once on Saturday morning I was walking from the salon along Bolshaya Dmitrovka and saw my friend having breakfast with a young man on the veranda of the restaurant. “Ninka, hello! she shouted cheerfully. - Hangover? “No, I'm going from the beautician,” I shouted no less cheerfully. I didn't finish the course then: at some point I felt too sorry for the money.
The second experience with injection cosmetology was as follows: I have long believed that I have a wrinkle on my forehead. Well, like a wrinkle - when I tried to discuss it with loved ones, they usually said something like: “You are crazy, mother, where is your wrinkle? Go drink some water. " Nevertheless, one day I was riding in an elevator with my colleague, whom I consider to be an unconditional example of natural beauty, and suddenly, turning to the mirror, she complained that it was time to repeat Botox, but she did not have time to get to the salon. Shocked, of course, I immediately yelled: "Give me the contacts of your beautician!" So I liked Botox: I can still grimace, but no wrinkles.
I must admit that the story about Botox was given to me with some resistance: in the world in which I exist, doing Botox seems to be a little embarrassing. This feeling, oddly enough, is generally a frequent companion of my beauty spending and beauty procedures.You have to connect your mind and remind yourself that it's a shame to torture people in correctional colonies or, say, sleep with your best friend's husband, and botox is not a shame.
A related category to shame is thinking about what is normal and what not to spend money on. For example, I adore L'Occitane Almond Milk for Firming the Skin of the Body, but I never buy it myself: it gets in the way of the inner conviction that four thousand for a body cream is fucking too expensive. At the same time, I can easily spend the same and even more amount on a face cream, without any trepidation at all. Where is the logic?
In the meantime, L'Occitane almond cream is a traditional figure in all my wishlists. Separated by commas, there are usually spa subscriptions (the same situation: I love it, but I'm terribly sorry for the money), book certificates on Amazon.com and packs of coffee in beans from the Cherny cooperative.
About body, face and love
In gloss and blogs there is a dubious cliché "to win the genetic lottery." It turns out that I am one of the winners: thin and tall and have been like that since childhood. I never needed an effort to keep in shape, I didn't get better even during puberty. I play sports - I play football at the Girl Power club (by the way, join us), but only because I love to do it. In general, I love my body: I like to feel healthy, hardy, and agile. At the same time, on social networks, I regularly see girls with more spectacular figures than mine - more prominent, lean, pumped up in the "right" places. I contemplate them philosophically: I do not want one for myself enough to make an effort.
But paradoxically, the sight of a young male body sometimes causes acute alarm in me. The last time I saw something like this was at a rapper Face's concert, when at some point he pulled off his hoodie and was naked to the waist. (For those who have no idea what Face looks like naked to the waist, I explain: like a young god.) Quite unexpectedly, right there, during the concert, jumping by the stage, I began to nervously wonder if I should first sign up in the morning. rocking chair.
It usually lets go when I remind myself that for almost thirty-five years of my life I have never fallen in love with someone just because the person was normatively handsome. The first impulse is always something unrelated to appearance: some particularly witty joke, general love for the book "Notes and Extracts" or the ability to be frank. And then I begin to deeply spit on the standards of beauty - I begin to grow faint, looking into my eyes, furtively staring at the skin flickering in the cut of my shirt, or instantly lose the ability for meaningful activity, catching my gaze on, say, a mole on my neck. The people I love always seem very beautiful to me.