March 25, 2012 4 Comments
I’m walking through the airport lounge waiting for JJ to buy some proper luggage when I happen past the cosmetics section of duty free. There’s the usual grotty painted-up harlots hawking their wares stood infront of posters of model’s faces that are more like oil paintings than photos.
It strikes me how disconnected from the reality of actual beauty is the beauty industry. There’s no escaping the fact that men decide what is beautiful in women (and vice versa). Slogans feeding unearned entitlement (“you deserve it”) or fantasy anti-ageing (“advanced night repair formula”) are emblazoned upon essentially generic creams, gels and facepaints.
I think of how many models I’ve dated who look sensational in portfolio pictures, easily hotter than these Estee Lauder models, but are thoroughly unremarkable in the flesh. There’s the fashion model I threesomed, the catwalk model who fell in love with me, and recently the Victoria Secrets model I instant-dated (but didn’t bang). Every one of them a stunner on paper and merely “pretty hot” in person. Make-up works.
In Thailand I was struck by how well scrawny little girls doll up. I don’t mean to belittle the little chipmunks because they are doing what comes naturally and I am a firm supporter of their being more well-presented women in the world. Here’s a case in point.
This young girl is a fresh graduate I dated a couple of times last month. A sweet pleasant good girl (I can just hear all the loser farang trying to find a way to pass her off as a freelancer looking to feed her family back in the village. They need to believe good girls don’t exist in Thailand to justify them not finding any). When dolled up she’s encroaching upon eight territory. But just look at the change when she’s gone au-naturel and an unflattering photo.
The reality is she’s somewhere in the mid-seven range. Good skin, slim, limber, with charming features and a lovely manner. This was our second date. Give me that over a hoity-toity model any day of the week.