Ahen I chatted with a bride-to-be, gently applying blush to her cheeks and lifting her lashes with mascara, I was proud to have found a home in the beauty industry. But as time went on, the glamorous facade of working makeup counters began to wear off, and what began as a love affair with the industry turned sour.
I have always been a creative person and have been drawn to beauty since I was a teenager. But with most of the best remedial courses not covered by student loans and costing around £20,000 per year, formal training felt completely out of reach for me.
At 18, I set my sights on working as a cover staff at makeup counters, and in the meantime, I learned everything I could about makeup techniques on YouTube. Soon after, I went through the application process to work behind the counters in high-end department stores. I was over the moon.
The offer was accompanied by a strict dress code: skirt, suit jacket, five-inch heels, red or nude nail polish, pearl necklace with matching earrings and red lipstick. The look was a far cry from my usual aesthetic, but I had been working in hospitality since I was 16 and was excited to try a more glam look, even if it left me broke.
Standing behind shiny, branded counters, I took pride in my appearance and thrived on helping customers feel safe. I especially liked helping people feel more confident about their skin problems. As someone who suffered from acne, I knew how a touch of foundation, or the right concealer, could make all the difference in your self-esteem. Working in makeup all day felt like a dream. It was exciting, challenging, and I looked forward to switching to different brands each shift—Dior, Charlotte Tilbury, Nars, or Laura Mercier—brands I dreamed I could afford and felt a bit more attainable now that I was earning a salary.
But as my experience grew, so did the hours I was expected to work. My knees were shaking with pain from enduring a 12 hour shift in heels on hard marble floors. My feet rubbed so much in my shoes that they often bled. Once, with tears in my eyes, I asked my manager if he could change me into flats; they told me he could go and buy me some lower heels on my lunch break. Flats were off limits unless you were hurt, he said. So, with no other options, I started concocting a foot injury just so I could get through the day.
The managers examined my appearance in a way that took me completely by surprise. Sometimes I would arrive at a counter with a full face of makeup, only to be handed a mirror, hairbrush, and a different shade of lipstick and told to look more presentable. On other days, I would get complimented on looking amazing, even though I couldn’t tell the difference. The unpredictability fueled insecurities about how I looked and I began to dread going to work. The job, which had once ignited so much passion and creativity in me, had become less and less about skill and more about my physical appearance.
My colleagues could also be ruthless. Cover staff were not entitled to earn commissions on sales, and full-time employees regularly took products out of my hands so they could cash them at the register with their IDs. Others insisted that I put my makeup back on or patronized me by asking if I knew what certain products were. The toxic atmosphere began to have an impact on my mental health and I began to withdraw into myself. I started getting reprimanded for not being bubbly or outgoing enough, once even crying at the station after enduring even more criticism. Another manager called my attention to that, too: Employees shouldn’t be crying in the shop, he said.
I never planned to leave the beauty industry. But four years after starting, one change in particular made me quit for good. It had been a long day, and knowing that I would go crazy, I had brought a bottle of water with me from home. My manager watched me go get it from the closet on my lunch break. “Are you looking for your water bottle?” she asked. I nodded as she opened the container. Is there. That’s what you get for bringing plastic to my counter. I only accept glass,” she said. “You can take it out of the trash if you really want it.” That was the last straw that made me realize that this job was not worth sacrificing my sanity for.
Ten years later, the level of scrutiny I received over my personal appearance continues to have an impact on my self-esteem. At a formative age, I was exposed to a toxic culture around beauty standards, and I’m still overly critical of my appearance. Walking back to the department store is enough to fill me with dread. I feel much more comfortable ordering online.
For me, beauty has always been much more than appearance. I see makeup as a tool to enhance, empower and build confidence, but that balance is so easily thrown off when used as a weapon to determine your worth. I still love makeup, but leaving the industry has helped me feel like I have a lot more control over my image. Now, I recognize that my value is much more than my appearance.
Elizabeth McCafferty is a journalist who writes regularly for the Guardian Experience.
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Source: news.google.com