The brilliant Hilton Als, author of the unbelievably fantastic, P.S.-the-best-gift-ever The Women, now has a brilliant blog, Et Als, which all persons should read.

*Full disclosure: Hilton and I cemented our friendship long ago, sitting in the molded-plastic bolted-to-the-floor-and-each-other chairs of a mental-ward waiting room. (We were both visiting the same patient.)

*Top-secret info for die-hard fans: Hilton's very favorite beauty product is Weleda Iris cleanser and moisturizer.

—Jean Godfrey-June, beauty director

In my opinion, only a tiny, tiny minority of people would not be utterly delighted and seduced by one or more of the following items. The items do not appear in the Lucky gift guides because I have repeated them so often as to render them unusable. That doesn't render them any less desirable, however. So, just in case anyone missed my relentless repetitions:

- Fresh Brown Sugar Body Polish
- Aveda Shampure in the enormous bottle
- Kiehl's shaving cream
- Large Acqua di Parma soaps
- Chanel Le Vernis Nail Colourtrio: Blue Satin, Ballerina, and Barcelona Red
- Diptyque candle in Baies

—Jean Godfrey-June, beauty director

. . .and its mission is "awareness, understanding, celebration and commemoration of the fabric and all related items." Club meetings (you need to wear at least two corduroy garments, FYI) are held only twice a year: on 1/11 and 11/1, dates that most resemble corduroy's telltale vertical ribbing. Members scoff at velvet ("poor man's corduroy") and are fond of chanting the motto "Hail the Wale!" at meetings, since the club's symbol is the whale—a homonym of "wale," i.e., the raised portion of corduroy fabric.

I would like to propose a club scent: the very woodsy-spicy-fresh cologne Corduroy by Zirh International, which, according to Sephora, "captures the confidence and sophisticated chic of the man who creates his own destiny." Though men and fragrance can be tricky (they wear either too much or none at all, no?), I tried this one on a corduroy-inclined friend and found it decidedly sexy—clean and hunky.

—Cat Marnell, beauty assistant

About once every week in the winter—or twice, if I'm particularly lax—I go to bed without washing my face. Here's why: By 11 or 12 at night, my apartment's antique heating system sputters to a halt, the bathroom floor tiles drop to bone-chilling temperatures, and the tap water goes only tepid at best. To justify my laziness, I've built up a logic that I actually half-believe: By denying my skin the various products languishing in the cabinet, I'm sort of... toughening it up. So that on the days it does get the de-wrinkling/moisturizing/anti-whatever creams, it will be really, really grateful, and reward me by being exceptionally good-looking and glowy.

This makes no sense. Obviously. My skin is not a wayward teenager, and it hasn't responded kindly to my tough-love program. The day after I don't wash, it looks the way you'd guess: bad. And the days after I do wash, it's not as bad, but still not great.

But. But! Two things have just happened that will, I think, change everything:

1. Peter Thomas Roth now makes these incredible swipey glycolic face pads that I've started keeping on the window ledge behind my couch; I take one, rub it on, and about a minute later, my skin starts to sting, so I'm forced to sprint across the tiles, rinse it off (quickly!), and slap on whatever moisturizer is on hand. Done and done. I used them once or twice a week in the beginning and have worked my way up to every day—and they give my skin a dewy I-slept-all-through-the-night-and-then-ran-a-couple-miles-just-for-the-joy-of-it look.

2. After listening patiently to my woeful freezing-tiles stories, my mother sent me these ridiculous pink suede fur-lined slippers, which, I have to say, are growing on me. Sort of I Love Lucy meets Mrs. Claus. But most importantly, they're unbelievably warm—and should be part of every cheap-apartment dweller's skincare routine.

—Cristina Mueller

Anyone who knows me is familiar with (and doubtlessly weary of) my amateur-physician medical obsession. I read studies, I consider symptoms, I draw conclusions. I often guess the correct disease the patient is suffering from before House reveals it.

I diagnose, and I treat, if allowed. While I have not yet had the chance to perform open-heart surgery, I have gotten very good with sinus infections, to which I am prone. Sinus infections are a beauty problem as well as a health one—the puffy, bleary eyes, nasal voice, blotchy red nose—it's never pretty. The conventional treatment is antibiotics. Which, if you're female, leads to more trouble.

My better-than-antibiotics cure: Three days of the over-the-counter Afrin (any more than three days works against you), augmented by: A) The brilliant Simply Saline, which looks like a can of hair mousse but is actually salt water that you shoot up your nose, Studio 54—style, as many times as you can make yourself, to moisturize and de-infect your sinuses. B) The brilliant Darphin 8-Flower Nectar face oil, which you massage into your cheekbones and forehead where it hurts, temporarily soothing the pain and leaving your skin glowing and beautiful. C) The brilliant Lime Basil & Mandarin Bath Oil from Jo Malone. I have floated this theory before, but it bears repeating in these disease-ridden times: A hot bath with the Jo Malone Lime Basil & Mandarin speeds the demise of any sickness. It's not just the hot bath, it's whatever's in that Lime Basil. Truly.

—Jean Godfrey-June, beauty director

Dazed after a six-hour flight for a work trip in Los Angeles, I stared in amazement out the taxi window as we waited for the light at Hollywood and La Brea. There, in a barren nail-salon parking lot, an enormous tangle of faux hair danced aimlessly in the wind, a magnificent platinum tumbleweed trying to find its way home to the Playboy mansion, gleaming in the moonlight as it bobbed and rolled along the curb and finally came to rest unceremoniously in a gutter. I laughed.

But ensconced in my hotel room, I looked in the mirror and noted that the back of my head looked not unlike the tumbleweed. Though I'd brought a throw-pillow-size cosmetics pouch stuffed with travel-size products, not one of them, I found, was conditioner.

Other people would opt for the hotel-provided stuff; I, however, have absurdly thick, unruly hair and never grew out of the fist-size knots that, India-and-Jean-Godfrey-June-like, plagued my childhood relationship with my mother well into post-pubescence. So I went to the drugstore and bought a massive bottle of Tresemme Color Thrive Conditioner—it is huge, and I needed a lot. And OHMIGOD, it's so good. The tangles literally dissolved in my hands in, like, five seconds; after my shower, my hair air-dried beautifully (I'd of course forgotten my blow dryer) into GLOSSY waves (while my hair is many things, it has been glossy maybe once in the past three years, after a stylist loaded it with about five tablespoons of silicone and blew it dry for 50 minutes).

I had to leave the watermelon-size bottle in Hollywood—it didn't fit into my suitcase—but I've already bought a new one. Best. Conditioner. Ever.

—Cat Marnell

About five minutes into my maiden snowboarding attempt last weekend, my SPF face-and-lip balm flew out of my ski pants. Since I had no idea how to go right or left (only straight down, at much too rapid speed), I had to abandon it in the powdery snow.

Three days later, I'm still feeling the effects: My lips are chapped. My skin is cracked and windburned. My body is also covered in bruises shaped like tree trunks and ski poles.

My three-pronged approach—Blistex Silk & Shine Lip Protectant, Sundari Omega 3 and Amalaki Night Cream, and Dr. Hauschka Ouch! Aid Arnica Compresses—is slowly restoring me to normalcy.

Next time, clearly, I'm taking a lesson. And duct-taping the SPF balm to my forehead. And accepting any other advice—beauty and otherwise—you can give me.

—Dawn Spinner, associate beauty editor

Besides having a talent for making us and our models look fantastic, Wei Lang has truly beautiful skin. During a lunch break at a shoot the other day, I grilled her: "It's the Clarisonic face brush," she said. "I just don't feel clean without it, and it really gives me a glow." Somewhere between a manual scrub and a visit to the spa or dermatologist, the rotating bristles use the same sonic technology as toothbrushes to smooth skin and treat everything from breakouts to dryness to wrinkles. Says Wei: "It basically improves just about anyone's complexion—you just keep it in the shower and use it every day."

—Dawn Spinner, associate beauty editor

I take the subway to the office every morning. Around this time every year, however, the man to my left starts sniffling endlessly, the woman to my right begins a nasty growling-coughing sound, and there's always some little kid wiping his hands on the seat after picking his nose. For the 10 minutes it takes me to get uptown, I turn into a Howard Hughes: I breathe through my scarf. I cover my hands in hand sanitizer—Soapopular, which is an amazing fragrance-free, alcohol-free, instantly drying foam. It's small enough to throw in my bag, never leaks, and is proven to kill everything.

—Dawn Spinner, associate beauty editor

A long-longtime obsession of mine is the Gorsuch catalog; all people must see it. It is a catalog (and a website, and several freestanding stores) for wealthy outdoorsy-ish types who like their outfits on the ultra-sexy side. Ultra-sexy and ultra-expensive: There are tight zebra-print warmup pants for $599, ultra-fitted turtlenecks for $428, lots of sexy zippered sweaters ($1,398 for the white cashmere), and a cavalcade of fur-trimed boots. The models are draped with bling and bags and sunglasses; it's very Paris Hilton/Catherine Zeta-Jones/Melania après-ski. The combination of body-consciousness, wild price points and the Tyrolean accents—Edelweiss walking shoes! Matching Norwegian sweaters for the whole family!—never fails to astound and delight me. It's almost not a fantasy—the photographs might well be reportage from various clubs around Aspen, except for the fact that the male models are on average 50 years younger than the real men who pal around with these sexy ski-bunny types in real life.

(One handsome, unrealistically young one on page 100 is kitted out in something called a Johaan Gottfried jacket, making me wonder about a long-lost designer German twin of mine, but anyway.)

Several beauty products have now trickled into the Gorsuch mix, and among them is one of my all-time favorite scented candles: the smoky, woodsy, gorgeous Feu de Bois by Diptique—which, at $55, is one of the more bargain-basement items on offer. Get a candle—and a catalog—today!

I am addicted to the smells of Christmas: Pine, gingerbread, roasting chestnuts, burning wood in a fireplace—I love them all.

But my fiancé, it turns out, hates scented candles. "I'm getting a headache," he whines strenuously every time I burn one. One by one, I've had to replace all my favorite candles with sterile, fragrance-free versions. My "holiday" collection sits abandoned, tossed aside next to my too-tall-to-walk-to-work-in heels.

But this is a story of compromise, not blind capitulation: I've stocked my bathroom with Philip B Nordic Wood body wash and Philosophy Sage lotion. Both are pretty and subtle on the skin, give me my holiday scent fix, and don't give Brandon a headache.

—Dawn Spinner, associate beauty editor

I'd say this was a scientific impossibility if I weren't watching it unfold right now, but: I'm wearing a polish that has lasted, pristine and glossy and completely chipless, for three full weeks. Three weeks. Manicures are generally not my forte—and by "not my forte," I mean I screw them up royally, always, within a matter of days, or hours, or minutes, or (most frequently) while I'm still in the nail salon—to the infinite frustration of the technicians.

But this polish from Orly—a shape-shifting dove gray/lavender color* called Dance Til Dawn—is incredible. The funny thing is that as I got it done** I hated it; it took twice as long to dry as usual, and looked kind of sad and goopy around the edges. But after I painted on my usual quick-dry topcoat from Sally Hansen, the edges smoothed out, and then... it stayed. And stayed. And then stayed some more, through the piles of dishes from a 12-person dinner party last week. Flat-out, full-on miracle.

*Wait three months and I swear that pale gray will be as popular as black polish was last winter; every polish company I've met with recently has a version in their spring collections, and the shade looks subtle and clean and modern (and very slightly like smooth river pebbles) on short nails. One person announced approvingly that it looked like I'd "dipped my fingers in concrete." I know it sounds a bit dubious, but the color really, really works.

**I want to be clear: This manicure didn't persevere because of the handiwork of some zillion-dollar manicurist to the stars; I had it done at a run-of-the-mill austere-but-functional nail salon somewhere in midtown. I'm sure: The true magic is in the polish.

—Cristina Mueller, senior beauty editor

My mom treated me to a weekend at the incredible Japanese-onsen-style, koi-pond-laden Ten Thousand Waves Spa in Santa Fe. I spent the first morning languishing in a stunning outdoor hot tub, anticipating my first-ever massage appointment. But in the locker room, I checked my text messages and learned that mice—which, one might remember, I mortally fear—had again infiltrated my New York apartment. ("OMG AND THE ONE I SAW WAS NOT SMALL," texted my friend/housesitter).

Minutes later, I was face down on the massage table, greasy as a beignet and piled with hot stones, panicking, despairing, bargaining with God. "You're really tense," my masseuse noted.

"I know I don't know you, but I just found out there are mice in my apartment and I sort of need to talk about it," I said. I explained that the last time I'd had them, I didn't sleep for three days: "Every night I sat on my bed until dawn with all of the lights and the TV on, wearing big cowboy boots and crying and throwing magazines at the radiator." Perhaps this was too much information, but I couldn't help myself.

She paused. "You know," she said helpfully, "we attract animals with our own... kindred animal energy." My shoulder muscles must have somehow signaled my bafflement. "Like, sometimes people with mice are, like, spiritually invoking them, you know?"

I tried to chalk this up to her being a crunchy Santa Fe-an who'd never set foot in a New York apartment.

"Relax," she said.

"I'm trying," I whispered. "I don't think I can."

It turns out I was wrong: Five minutes in, I was a million times calmer, and after 20 I was blissed out completely; by the hour's end, it was as if I'd been shot with a tranquilizer dart meant for circus animals. The massages at Ten Thousand Waves are just that good, and anybody with vermin at home deserves to go New Mexico and have one.

(Back in New York, however, the reign of terror continues.)

—Cat Marnell, beauty assistant

Why have the Rolling Stones aged so much better than the Eagles? Were they just better-looking to start with, or is there surgery/lack of surgery/product involved?

I am obsessed with the entire "Evil Eye" section of the online Istanbul Bazaar—evil eyes at wholesale prices! Options range from evil-eye-fighting cellphone straps to baklava-shaped paperweights, all with indigo blue glass "eyes" in concentric circles of milk-white, turquoise, and black, designed to protect you from general ill will. Almost everything is less than $50, and most is under $10, so I don't feel so bad about buying a bracelet and this strange, woozy-looking little owl, which I'm planning to pop out of the wooden frame; if you look closely, you can see the tiny evil eyes disguised as breast feathers.

On my way out of the bazaar, armed with my newly purchased positivity, I wandered into the Turkish bath section...  and fell in love with this six-soap set—cinnamon, vanilla, and a very intriguing clove scent. They're super-moisturizing and a bit spicy—and the set comes with a bright sliver of tile that fits in quite nicely with my new slightly mystical decor.

—Cristina Mueller, senior beauty editor