Does My Moustache Look Big in This?

How is it possible that people calling themselves make up artists are so often completely deranged?
Last weekend I condescended to take part in a short, unpaid, film. These are usually a total drag unless they’re for your dear friends, which this was not. They always involve changing goalposts, and rinsing actors for all they’re worth. The inequality of this industry means that whilst you’ll get experienced actors to take part, the crew is often a different matter. You see, insecure actors will agree to do almost anything to keep their hand in, whereas crew will do things purely to work in an upward trajectory, earning points on their CV’s.
Ever the pro, and knowing that I won’t be needed until several hours after my actual call time, I arrive at the shoot equipped the largest weekend paper I could find. Here I am greeted by the most bizarre looking pair, who are, it seems, the make up department. What I see is two young women, one little, and one large. Both very round. Both plastered in foundation. No surprises here. I’ve noticed that the bigger the job you’re doing, the more experienced the team, the less crap they wear on their faces, and likewise, the less they put on yours. The thing I find odd is that they’re both wearing tight boob tubes. One is Turquoise, and one is ‘Wonderfully Orange’. It’s as if they’ve made an agreement on a uniform, or that they think this get up will give them more credibility or something. And I really don’t understand, as a thin person, what would possess anyone to wear stretch cotton without straps. I mean, it’s not going to do anyone any favours. The larger of the two (she’s actually scarily large), in turquoise, is wearing an old once-white bra, with a bobbly polyester pink back. The straps, now grey, are thick, and are cutting into her red sweaty flesh. I’m confused. The little one has opted not to wear a bra, and the result is exactly how I’d imagine my own breasts to look in such a get up – squashed and sad. I know it sounds arrogant and cruel, but imagine my consternation as I realise that these two are going to be responsible for my credibility on screen, and that they’re having trouble putting the other actresses hair into a pony tail.
I’m offered coffee by a runner, and I request my usual hot water, and something to eat, anything, a tomato sandwich.
Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee, having given up on the ponytail, shift their focus onto me. Svetlana (large turquoise lady) asks Ruby what the ‘look’ is for my character. ‘Dewey’ comes the reply, and Svetlana’s off, stripping all natural oils from my face, and brandishing her trowel. She layers it on thick, of course. When I glimpse the effect of beige paint, applied in stripes down my face, I remember why I don’t wear foundation. It slips into every wrinkle, creating furrows. It coats every hair, making what once could be described as ‘down’ a la Ms Monroe look more like fur. I look like grandpa from Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
The next trick is to apply eye shadow – another thing I’ve never seen the point of. Svetlana, unlike you, I haven’t plucked my eyebrows into a state of permanent drawn on surprise! There isn’t enough space to between lid and brow for this kind of thing – especially not in three tones of pink.
This pinnacle of facial expertise then informs me, that I will damage my eyelashes if I insist on using eyelash curlers. Is she insane? Eyelashes are dead. I’m more worried about the skin on my face ever being able to breathe again.
The tour de force is the bright pink lip-gloss, lovingly applied just before lunch. This is then retouched 30 times before I shoot my first scene, in which I look more like a cross dressing prostitute than the girl next door I’m supposed to be.
I do the only logical thing in these circumstances. During my hour break, I nip next door and spend £30 on a yellow dress – it’s amazing how it feels to spend money when you’re earning none. It doesn’t even matter that when I get it home to show Mr B., he says it’s a bit childish. I retort that it’s rather Rosemary’s Baby. ‘Who are you? The baby?’
‘No’ I reply, ‘I’m Mia Farrow.’ I think that the conversation is closed, when he comes back with ‘Mia Farrow’s tall and blonde. Which bit of her are you?’ At which point I go to find the paint stripper to undo Svetlana’s work.