Miss Dior

Illustration By Ellinor Forje

Before my great awakening some years ago, this ritual involved the rather laborious task of deliberation, which liner, which shadow, which mascara, often ending in a rotation of Lancôme, Chanel, Mac, Bobbi Brown, and YSL, assembled, not always in that order, to create depth, definition, and whatever elusive magic I was chasing at the time.

Then came New York, circa 2006 or 2007. I was browsing the beauty hall at Macy’s when I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. A male voice, warm and assured, said, “I’d love to do your makeup.”

Startled, I turned, and was met with a vision so striking that the only thing I could muster was, “Oh my God…, are those real?”

“Honey,” he said, with a knowing smile, “you can pluck and tug all you like, they’re not going anywhere. These are real.” He gestured toward his impossibly lush eyelashes, then, with quiet authority, invited me to sit. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

What followed was a kind of choreography, the soft swoosh, swoosh, swoosh of two different brushes, the precise layering of black mascara, the sweep of blue eyeshadow paired with a perfectly matched pencil. I remember the sounds almost as vividly as the transformation itself.

When he was finished, I looked up, slightly stunned. “I love it,” I said, then, unable to contain my curiosity, added, “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Dior School,” he replied.

“When? Where?” I asked, leaning in. “And, most importantly, how do I enroll?”