Makeover madness: When a whole new you really isn't

Krabbe K. Piting, Contributor, Jakarta

One seemingly normal afternoon, I received a call from an old friend who works as a beauty and fashion editor at a popular women's magazine. We exchanged a few pleasantries; I thought she was going to announce a friend's upcoming wedding.

Then she dropped the bomb.

"Would you be interested in being a model for our makeover page?"

Pause.

"Am I that ugly?" I asked her half-jokingly.

"No, no, no. We don't do ugly, we just enhance attractive people. If you need proof, I'm also proposing my Eurasian relative as the other candidate."

Nice. It seemed that I'm on par with her Eurasian relative, looks-wise. I took it as a compliment.

"Is there any money in it?"

"Yes. Not much, though. Around Rp 150,000."

Now, Rp 150,000 would pay for my monthly facial and besides, I was curious how a stranger would make me over. God knows I needed it. I might also be able to discover some tips and tricks.

"OK, I'm in."

So I filed for a one-day leave and mutter something unintelligible about having to do "something" for a day to my boss.

There's always something amusing about those makeover pages. The "before" picture looks more like a mugshot, where Plain Jane peers awkwardly into the camera with her greasy face and crazy hair. Then there are the makeover pictures, where you see a group of kind, talented people work their magic hands on Jane.

Voila, there is the "after" picture. The ugly duckling has been turned into a glorious swan for a day.

I promised myself I would at least give a big smile for my "before" picture.

The day before the makeover, the stylist SMSed me, telling me to bring stuff I mostly don't have, namely a blazer, a pair of pants, a skirt, open-toed shoes, mules and a work bag. I was confused. So I called my friend.

"Yes, the stylist just got back from Bali so she's afraid she doesn't have time to pick up clothes from the stores. But she's working on it."

I listened in disbelief. This did not sound too promising.

I thought they're supposed to dress me up with beautiful finery that is not mine. I dreaded being photographed in my uninteresting, mismatched clothes for my "after" photo. That would send out the message that I was a hopeless case. Look, she still looks like a bag lady in her after photo!

I arrived promptly at 8:30 a.m. the next day. Those who know me know this was a hard chore, indeed, since I usually wake up at 9 a.m. Thus the dark circles surrounding my bleary eyes. The stylist had not arrived. I started reading my book. I noticed another girl sitting beside me, looking lost.

"Are you here for the makeover?" she asked.

"Yes. Did she ask you to bring blazer, trousers, etc.?"

"Yes, she did. Unfortunately I don't have some of them."

The other girl was a friend of somebody from the magazine as well, but not my friend. I made a mental note that she was not ugly.

I glanced at my watch; it was 9 a.m. Instead of the stylist, somebody I perceived as the Eurasian relative came and sat across from me. Where's the bloody stylist?

Finally, at 9:15 a.m., the stylist arrived. She introduced herself to us and asked us to follow her into a huge studio. She assigned places and make-up artists to us.

I dutifully sat on my chair attended by my make-up artist, a nice girl in what looked like her early 20s, while I enviously wanted the Eurasian relative's assigned make-up artist to do my make-up instead, purely on the basis of (and I am ashamed of this and should wallow in my own pool of small-mindedness because of it) him being a trendy gay man.

As it turned out, we were still going to be made up for the "before" photo. My make-up artist fished around her make-up kit then wielded something that looked not unlike a penknife. I ducked my head to the left in horror.

"Whoa, what's that??"

"For your brows." I did not want to be one of those women with barely there, penciled in brows.

"No, please. I like mine the way they are now."

Surprisingly, she put it away without protest. She then started applying industrial strength foundation on my blemish- ridden face.

I frantically looked for the word "oil-free" on the foundation tube from the corner of my eye. Or at least "non comedogenic".

No such luck. I imagined my face flaring up with acne hours from now, making me look worse than all those strangers' before photos. But I didn't want to throw any divaesque strop, so close in time to the penknife incident, so I kept my mouth shut and hoped for the best.

The Eurasian relative bonded very quickly with her trendy gay make-up artist. They talked about their dogs. Their friends' dogs. The best dog diet. Me, I have the social skill of an ape. Especially among the beautiful people. Here I was, the bumbling baboon who did not want her unruly brows trimmed.

Maybe it's because I went to an all-girl school for six years, where behaving like an ape is very much acceptable. But wait, my friends from school have stopped behaving like apes. Maybe it is just me after all.

"Close your eyes." said the make-up artist as she applied eyeshadow. I closed them, and boy, that felt really good! I started falling asleep when I heard a male voice saying, "You're laying it on too thick!"

I opened my eyes and it was the hairdresser, who was also the make-up artist's brother.

"This is the 'before' photo. She looks too made up!" I noticed I now had scarlet lips.

"No, she's not."

"Yes, she is."

"No." My make-up artist did not sound too sure now.

It was now my turn to be photographed. The make-up artist quickly wiped my eyes.

The stylist instructed me to strike a pose. It's not rocket science, but somehow such a simple task did not register with my brain. I was as stiff as a day-old corpse, as wooden as a log. Pinocchio would make a better model than me.

After several attempts at bringing out my inner model, the stylist gave up and asked me to sit on a chair, to make me look more relaxed. But now I could not give a big smile as I promised myself to do. It was really hard to smile when one is so self- conscious.

The photographer commented (or joked?) that I looked too intense. I went back to my make-up chair with my tail between my legs.

The make-up artist did a lot of contouring on my face for my "after" photo. When she finished shading my nose, I looked like I had had a nose job. My nose now looked thin and pointy.

"You should add more lipstick to the right side of her lower lip. Her lower lip is asymmetrical," the hairstylist commented, as if I wasn't there. The make-up artist agreed and added more lipstick. This was interesting. I did not know I have an asymmetrical lower lip.

Then it was time to do the hair. I should've said something -- ANYTHING! -- when the hairstylist took out a curling iron. Twenty minutes later, my hair was turned into a head of ringlets. I recited a silent prayer that he would then brush my hair and turn the curls into waves. No such luck. He grabbed the hairspray and sprayed ferociously. I looked like a bridesmaid in a low budget Hong Kong flick. I wanted to forget the Rp 150,000 and disappear.

Luckily, the stylist came back from lunch and felt the same way I do about the hair. She quickly instructed the hairstylist to change it into something "younger". He looked miffed.

"But her face will look even rounder!" the make-up artist intervened. The stylist held her ground. So the change was made, although grudgingly on the hairstylist's part.

After the hair was done, it was time for the clothes. For me, the stylist assigned a ruffled white shirt with a high neck, an orange sweater and a pair of beige trousers. I could not button the top of the shirt, even with the help of the stylist.

"My, you've got such a thick neck!" she said, giggling good naturedly. Now I wish I've got a thick-skinned face instead.

As I removed the goo from my face after my photo, the stylist approached me and asked me a rhetorical question: "Do you mind if we say in the article that you came to us and wanted a new look?"

Another makeover myth was shattered. So those people were never really tired of their current look and wanted a new one to go along with new jobs, boyfriends, etc.? Obviously doing it for the money does not sound as good on paper, so I obliged and quickly went on my way.

Aside from the freshly acquired knowledge that I have asymmetrical lower lip, thick neck and a very round face, I went home defeated and none the wiser.

Imagine my surprise about two weeks later when the magazine came out. Apparently the magazine did not just say I wanted a new look, they added much more. It said that I told them I was a tomboy and I didn't look creative enough for my line of work.

The gushing backgrounder then proceeded to say that I said I could not tear away myself from the mirror after the makeover. It also got a comment from a fictitious co-worker, "She looked really great. People from the office would love this! I would definitely encourage her to wear this look every day!"

As I fielded calls and SMSes from friends, the prevailing thought in my mind was: When's the next flight to Timbuktu?

I suppose I can still tell my grandkids about this (but on my deathbed, so they cannot ask questions), but the moral of this Cinderella story is that to undergo a makeover, you have to have a really, really thick face indeed.