The Astier de Villatte store in Paris has a sort of rabbit-warrenish vibe. There’s a room in the back where there might or might not be some sort of primitive kiln; the floor might or might not just be packed, ancient earth. You forget—until you’re signing your credit card bill—that you’re on the Rue Saint-Honoré, avec Hermès, Lanvin and the Hotel Bristol. Even though said bill is giving you some palpitations, as you sign it you see the scented erasers arranged in a big bowl and you have to have them as well.
We can’t all be having a lunch on the terrace at Cap Ferrat, flushed from our late-morning swim in the Mediterranean. But we can sure feel (and look) like it. This liquid blush only comes in two shades because they are so—freakin’ good.
I like my beauty products … pretty. This sheer tinted balm made with organic beeswax and olive oil is thick enough to really moisturize, matte enough that your hair will not get stuck in it, tinted enough to make a difference, pomegranate scented, sweet-tasting and—and isn’t it just the prettiest?
As in a death by a thousand cuts, many people end up blond by a thousand highlights. What starts as a few bits of light around the face becomes a stripy mass of Real Housewifian overdoneness. Some people make gorgeous blondes, but others (myself included) make hideous ones.
The farthest south I ever got in Italy was Pompeii: Spectacular, but grimy and hot. All I could think of was the just-out-of-reach Capri, with its azure waters, its Talented Mr. Ripley élan. Years later, it’s still all I can think of. So I spritz on the blue, wildly refreshing Arancia di Capri and instantly feel less grimy, more hot.
Depending on where you live, this lion/lamb/cruelest-month time period is unbelievably frustrating. Here is my $10, two-second total solution: the striped or floral-print Sally Hansen peel-off nail polish, for hands or feet.
I am the connoisseur of deodorants that don’t work. As in, all-natural, no-antiperspirant, full-on-almost-useless deodorant. I have my reasons, which many might deem foolish superstitions, so I will not go into them. In any case, I’ve tried them all and this one is head-and-shoulders above-the-rest superior.
In the Kiehl’s offices, they call the Original Musk perfume the Breakup Fragrance. Not because it causes breakups, but because, post-breakup, you dab a little on your wrists and step, chastened, back out into the world, and find yourself much more popular than you remember.
It’s your lips but pink, coral, red and berry, mixed together into a subtle but bright color that truly enlivens anyone’s skin.
These dinner-fork-length, green-tipped matches from Cire Trudon come in a box decorated with animal-headed revelers posing by a gigantic, wayward thistle—it’s just all I want in this world.
The retinol is time-released to minimize irritation, and it’s augmented with a pile of antioxidants and peptides for the necessary glowifying.