The hardest part of life is accepting that the time we get to spend in Sephora is so limited. There’s no guarantee we’ll get enough time among the aisles of makeup remover, endless samples, and the warm smile of a sales associate wearing just the right amount of makeup. Each splotch of foundation you blend into the back of your hand could be your last.
For me, Sephora is the place that I go to feel most in touch with myself. It is the place the reminded me that my natural beauty is never enough without a winged eyeliner and heavy crimson blush. It is the place that reminded me that I am not just an insecure Los Angeles housewife spending every dollar I have on beauty products. I am an insecure housewife spending every dollar my husband has on beauty products. This is why I am asking Jai and Aiden, my two beloved children, to spread my ashes in Sephora when I am gone. No matter what they tell you about “hygiene” and “laws,” remember: It’s what I would have wanted.
Before Sephora, I was just a round-faced gal with no knowledge of contour. I was the homely housewife that no pool boy would touch with a ten-foot pole. Now, my pool boys’ friends are masturbating to the photos I gave them specifically for masturbation purposes. I would not be that kind of fun, effortless, confident woman without Sephora.
Before Sephora, I couldn’t tell the difference between lip-stain and lipstick. Now, I am that woman who can put on designer mascara while driving a car full of toddlers. I am the woman who has defied the laws of time to appear 27 when we all know I’m 29. I am a manifestation of beauty that everyone wants to mount on a wall, like a beautiful moose.
And if my children want to spread my ashes in an establishment committed to enhancing their mind, body, and face, I will die in peace. Let them spread my mortal coil along the pristine white aisles so that anytime they buy a beauty product to fix their horrible faces, they will remember me. I want my sons to be dragged against their will by their girlfriends and wives to stand awkwardly in the corner trying to not touch anything. Let my black ashes paint the floor so that patrons aren’t sure whether they are tracking mud or trespassing on hallowed ground.
It is my wish that Sephora is the place that reminds my loved ones of their time with me, the sister, the mother, the insecure housewife trying to bury her emotional issues with pounds of chemicals on her Botox-hardened face.
And yes, you can take a sample of me home with you. Great for lids and brows.