Armed with my Clarsonic and Cetaphil, I was pretty sure I mastered the art of cleaning my face. (If I even make it to the sink considering most nights I lie in bed rubbing a Neutrogena Cleansing Wipe all over my face while watching Stephen Colbert.)
It doesn’t hurt that Bellis is embodies every female French stereotype in the best possible way. But there’s an old school charm that reminds me of being nine years old and sitting next to my grandmother at her vanity as she schooled me on Ponds cold cream and Chanel #5. I hung onto every word as though I was getting a privileged peek into the secrets of being a woman.
Besotted with Bellis’s instruction, I went out and bought LaRoche Posey Thermal water because she convinced me that New York City pollutes my face with “chlorine and caca”.
“Why is your face wet?” my husband asked as I looked for a clean towel.
“I’m getting it ready to receive product,” I said with the reverence of one about to receive communion.
I did the rapid movements. Circular movements. The pianotage. The swim. I stroked the daylights out of my neck.
This took 15 minutes. It’s not as charming when you don’t have a vanity and share a cramped bathroom with a man who’s trying to inch his way in to care of his own business.
Then I realized what was missing. The French accent.
Zut alors. I’ll keep the thermal water since Bellis convinced me living in NYC has polluted my face, but I’m going back to my Clarsonic and Cetaphil.