I have just joined a cult. Not just any cult, mind you. Not some robe-and-sneaker-wearing, kool-aid drinking,Follow the Nutbag Chosen One off of a steep cliff kind of an organization. Oh no, people. My cult has a penthouse in Manhattan with a doorman, a dimly-lit mahogany lobby leading to an old but immaculately restored old brass elevator, and a foyer that leads to a room filled with immaculately-dressed people all discussing their favourite Russian novels while sipping dirty martinis. The air of my cult smells a little like leather, lavender, citrus, and musk.
You see dear reader, I have finally up and joined the ranks of the cult of Tom Ford Cosmetics.Behold.
These photos just do NOT do it justice
Note the swanky black and gold packaging. The Glossy, Cardstock-Quality Insert Booklet which likely cost more to produce than my first college apartment. The Weighty Compacts with their heavy gold detailing and logo. The Velvet Case in which you are to put said gold compact. A compact-warmer…nay….a compact sleeve.
Tom Ford’s makeup mantra is that there should be a ritual attached to the application of your cosmetics, that the act of “putting on your face” should be a joy unto itself, if not an art. And these cosmetics, they are Up. To. The. Job. This is some seriously high-end stuff people. No matter if you like to put it on sparingly or go for the full Snooki, the velvet textures are buildable, there is a very generous amount of product, and the pigment lasts all gosh-darn day long. They are expensive, yes. But this is the kind of luxury a regular gal that lives way up in the Scottish West Highlands can understand. It is abouttaking the time, performing the ritual, letting yourself know that you are worth the effort.
There is also a heavy emphasis on skincare (quite right) at the cult of Tom Ford. The products are gentle and emollient, not a lot of perfume (or any in some cases), and function beautifully without being greasy. Every luxury-minded sister wife in the cult has no excuse for anything less than radiant glowing skin.
The makeup brushes. Oh, the brushes.I was so busy being lulled into some kind of rub-a-toad-on-its-belly coma while the man was using these exquisite brushes on me that I seem to have failed to retain exactly what kind of hair it is that is in the brushes. All I remember is soft. Really, really soft. And some mention of a goat or a yak, or maybe an alpaca? I don’t know. Soft.
Then the very nice young man at the Glasgow Tom Ford counter did my colormatch. Turns out I am Tawny, which sounds waaaaaay sexier than my usual NC30, Warm Beige, or C3. Tawny. Like a pair of well-tanned legs in short shorts, flippy hair, and a tube top circa 1979. Tawny. Sweet!
Photo courtesy harrods.com
Also chose a blusher called Flush….again with the sex references. Flush. Speaks for itself. So Flush is like the brightest orangy-pink coral you could imagine. At a glance it could make one think of an old “I used to be a showgirl” Miami barfly. But when you put it on, the color is a vibrant but sheer wash that just brings the complexion alive. If you have medium or olive skin like me, check this one out, you will luuuurve it.
Photo courtesy harrods.com
Also am gasping for just about every single one of the fabulous and pigment-rich lipsticks (the products that started it all), but have deferred until a future date, as I don’t want to have to break the news to my husband that we have to move in with his parents because of my affair with Tom Ford.
I would also like to mention that the Tom Ford cult….er…counter employees themselves get to wear a uniform especially designed by the man himself. The men’s suits will be 3-piece, and are just coming out this season. I am seriously considering a career change for the suits alone.
At the end of my makeup experience, the nice young man asked me if I would be “treating myself to something today”. He was well-trained, appropriate, discreet. Everything a high-end cosmetic salesperson should be. His question, however, was completely unnecessary. Tom Ford had me at hello. I believed I answered the young man with “yes master”, or “my messiah”, or something appropriately culty before surrendering my bank card, but then, I don’t really remember much after the goat brush.