Perhaps it's the incessant ways of New York city, but today I felt superbly flustered during an errand at Saks 5th Avenue. While browsing for a good mechanical eye-liner, I was bombarded by the plasticities that the free albeit ignorant world likes to call "cosmetic counter women". Someone better think of a scarier name. And quick. These lunatics will spritz their $400 Chanel No. 4, 5, 78, in absolutely any direction. I could have been coughing up my inner organs and I still would have received a fetid squirt of whatever those women were selling. The problem is, with the bat of their false eyelashes, and their rather silly amounts of bronzer, they are almost impossible to both ignore or deny. I let a small Filipino woman spritz the new Issey Miyake on my arm, a cute and very effeminate man massage my temples with cooling sandalwood gel, and a 6-foot tall stiletto clad tween spray my pinkie finger with Juicy Couture's newest scent (which is actually and truly delicious.)
I left Saks with a brown eyeliner and a new sense of personal odor.