M: I don’t know what it is about magazine freebies, E.

E: Flip flops. Endless canvas totes.

M: Body cream you will never use.

E: Crap sunglasses. I’d rather they stuck a pound coin to the cover. “Here, buy yourself something nice. Like a Kitkat.”

M: Yes. Or a nice pack of generic ibuprofen, perhaps. SOMETHING USEFUL. So I was pretty excited when I saw this month’s gift with purchase (GWP) in Elle.

E: Oh?

M: It will be of no interest to you, I fear. It is Mascara.

E: Oh, pff. They did that here with Belgian Elle. It was Chanel. I felt cheated of my GWP.

M: This is from Benefit. How do we feel about Benefit, E?

E: We are ambivalent. We own three half finished Benetints.

M: At first I thought their packaging was nice, their products intriguing. Then I started working right next to one of their London boutiques. They will. Not. Stop. Harrassing. People. About. their. EYEBROWS.

E: Ha, my friend Valerie swears by the Benefit brow bar and she is a proper beauty person.

M: It’s like some sort of weird eyebrow perversion. If you even glance in their direction, they will pounce upon you clad in those weird striped benetint aprons (what are you – BUTCHERS?), tweezers in hand.

E: They are brow fiends, feasting on stray brows.

M: Anyway, this mascara is “amusingly” called They’re Real! Please to be noting the annoying exclamation point.

E: I am singularly unamused by these jokey product names. SOAP AND GLORY, I AM LOOKING AT YOU.

M: Oh yes, Benetint and Soap and Glory clearly went to the same boarding school of perky cheeky hilariousness.

E: Playing lacrosse. Bliss was Head Girl.

M: Unscrew “They’re real”, though, and you’ll find a rather sinister little brush, like a mediaeval mace, but shrunken.

E: Ha. Is it full sized, this mascara?

M: No, it is pint sized.

E: “Shrunken medieval mace wand” Make a joy ad of that, Benetint.

M: It’s basically the mascara equivalent of one of those Lord of the Rings dwarves getting ready for battle.

E: Your nerd reference is lost on me, but no matter. How is the mascara itself?

M: It is good. Rich, glossy, dark. Defines your lashes well. The mace does a good job of separating them.

M: BUT.

E: But?

M: It starts smudging half way through the day. Panda eyes, E. THE PANDA EYES OF DOOM.

E: Poor show, Benedwarves.

M: Poor show indeed.

E: Would you buy it with your actual money? I’m guessing that’s a no.

M: No. I need my mascara to stay where it’s put. Mace or no mace.

E: Goodness, that’s unusual.

M: It is spring!!! SPRIIIIING!

E: Hmm. You say that and yet it is still 5 degrees and the news is all dead lambs.

M: No, E. Usually I am all doom and gloom and “oh my skin is like kapok bark” and whine whine whine first world problems.

E: Yup, that’s why we are friends. A shared belief in the therapeutic properties of whining.

M: But not today. Today I am excited about something other than meat and elephant webcams. IT IS THIS NEW FOUNDATION. It may very well be my most favourite beauty purchase ever. EVER EVER EVER.

E: New foundation, you say? How on earth can you afford it? Have you been robbing pensioners on the mean streets of Hackney? Fleecing hipsters? Patting down buggy toting organic mummies?

M: No. I literally spent my last £10.99 on it. YES. You have read that right. My new foundation is a cheapo. And it is amazing.

E: But! But but but. Beauty orthodoxy says “cheap foundation is always shit”. Could it be that this is actually … A LIE?

M: Before you get excited about it, every other blogger has already covered it so it is nothing new and special, unless you are idiots like us.

E: I’m living in a low lit bubble with a vomiting child and an aggressive hoover this week, it’s new and special for ME. What is this wonder fluid?

M: Well. Imagine if Becca Luminous whatever the hell it’s called was cheap. And available in every Boots across the nation.

E: Impossible. It’s made from Australian sunshine and baby koala breath.

M: Imagine if it came in a good range of shades, even one that worked for my yellow toned troubled skin prone to redness.

E: Cor.

M: IMAGINE, if you will, that it had SERUM in it. And actually made your skin better. More hydrated. MORE CALM. I am hyperventilating at the thought of it.

E: This is the product of your fevered imagination, antibiotics and vitamin D deficiency. It’s a mirage, M. Here, take a pill before you get rickets.

M: NO. IT IS REAL. REAL REAL REALNESS. It is from Bourjois. It is their new reworked Healthy Mix serun foundation:

E: “Healthy mix”. What kind of a name is that? It sounds like a Boots meal deal.

M: Yes. It comes with a free fruit salad printed on the bottle.  WHICH MAKES IT WONDERFUL.

E: M, you are blinded by LOVE. Foundation love. I need evidence. Is there a picture of your peachy skin to convince me please?

M: I was incapable of taking a picture where my hair was combed or half my face wasn’t contorted in a rictus of pain, but look:

E: That is actually very impressive. You look dewy and natural and radiant.

M: Yup. And it stays on all day. It evens out everything. I can’t feel it on my skin. It does not make me break out. It is, in a word, PERFECT.

E: Good lord. Is this … the cheap foundation HOLY GRAIL? Hiding, all this time, in plain sight in a chemists?

M: It is. Dear Bourjois: I take back every bad thing I have ever said about you

E: Ok. I’m convinced. I’m beating a path to the nearest stupidly named pharmacy in these isles to GET ME SOME.

M: YOU MUST.

E: EMPHATIC CAPITALS.

M: TOTALLY EMPHATIC.

E: HERE WE ARE, HANGING OUT ON OUR WEBLOG, SHOUTING ABOUT FOUNDATION LIKE MAD OLD LADIES ON STREET CORNERS.

M: IT WAS BOUND TO COME TO THIS ONE DAY.

Bourjois Healthy Mix Serum Foundation, £10.99

M wears shade 55

E: Not quite sure why, but sure, I can go with that, OK. I am the expectant Rodriguez family.

M: “What are we going to call the little cherub”, you ask yourself. What can set him up for a life of quiet, gentle contentment?” NARCISO. He was always going to be all LOOK AT ME. LOOOOOK AT MEEEEEE!

E: Listen, you. French people call their kids “Hippolyte”. Do not tell me Narciso is worse. Actually, I sort of confuse Narciso Rodriguez and François Nars, I realize.

M: It’s the “Nar” that confuses you presumably?

E: Mmm. I have looked at a picture now though. Narciso looks more like an actual person and less like a photofit picture made from adverts of semi-naked men cut out of GQ, which is of course what François Nars is.

M: Narciso Rodriguez. Apparently he can’t sleep before watching Jon Stewart. Crazy name, crazy guy.

E: Crazy popular fragrances. Did you know that? He sells TONNES of scent.

M: I always thought he was known for his wedding dresses, but I have come to the conclusion that I am confusing him with Carolina Herrera. WE HAVE NAME BLINDNESS.
Hang on. E, is this … a fragrance post?

E: Ssssh, there there. Nearly over. I recently went to party on a boat to learn about Narciso and his fragrances.

M: You what now? You went to a party on a what?

E: A BOAT. I went to a party on a boat. In the docks. In Brussels.

M: HA. Belgium, you bizarre little country.

E: It did not start auspiciously. I took public transport in my poor woman’s Roland Mouret dress to the very middle of NOWHERE. At one point the tram driver abandoned the tram to go and get a kebab.

M: I see.

E: Then I had to stagger along a dark, sinister, canal-side lane. In my heels, waiting to be murdered.

M: Did you smell of Narciso Rodriguez?

E: On the way there, I smelt of blind terror. On the way back, after a warm welcome and some cava and a collective singalong to New York New York (yes, really), I smelt of musk and chypre and orange blossom. That’s For Her, by the way.

M: For Her, the aspiring murder victim and karaoke idol.

E: Indeed. For Her was Narciso’s original scent. It’s nice. Classic. Not too in your face. Feminine. I liked it a lot actually. Then there’s “Essence”, which is drier, more powdery.

M: Powdery. I see. Oh god, I am sinking into a scent coma.

E: Deep healing breaths, M. We are nearly done. Let’s skip ahead to me telling you about the new fragrance.

M: If you must.

E: Which is called ‘L’Eau For Her’. Oh god, this is so confusing. Why do they all have the same name?

M: Revenge, for us confusing Narciso with other people, perhaps.

E: WE ARE SORRY, NARCISO. Anyway. This one is more of fresh, bouncy floral, but with a little musky note at the heart. Like being rolled in a botantical garden. Erm. Where a fox lives? But a nice, clean fox that hasn’t been going through any bins.

M: Uh oh. Spring foxes. We both know what that sounds like.

E: NO. Do NOT make this all about fox sex, M. It is a lovely spring floral.

M: No? Really? A floral? That is lovely for spring? BULLSHIT. The spring will never come. Your dad, King Science, has told us the apocalypse is coming.

E: Tsk. Nice Mr Rodriguez will make it all better. Less freak blizzards and fleece and fox sex, more optimism and shopping trips, picnics and pastels.

M: I see. Are you spritzing yourself in this? Bathing your temples.

E: No. I am not. For a very good reason. Because! I am going to GIVE IT AWAY to someone. I have a full sized L’Eau for Her in its lovely heavy, classy bottle, plus 75ml of body lotion, and I will brave the Belgian Post Office, populated by wall eyed halfwits, JUST FOR YOU.

M: Oooh! Excitement.What do they have to do to get it?

E: I think they should tell us one thing about what spring means to them in the comments, before the 25th of April. Is it shagging foxes? Owl webcams? Skin flakes billowing off your legs as you peel off your opaques sadly for the last time until September? TELL US ALL, and the best one wins a bottle full of spring.

M: Do. Join us in the festival of despair.

E: (patiently) No, M. Not despair. Florals.

M: Right. The festival of florals. *rolls eyes*

Update: We’ve used the highly dubious method of child slavery to pick a winner.

NITA! You will have some eau winging its way to you soon.

M: Yes! You made me fill out a questionnaire. With promises of free stuff. I never got the free stuff.

E: We were robbed. Nevertheless, I would like to invite you back, briefly, into the State of Purity (no passport required).

M: Hmm. It sounds very Orwellian.

E: Yes. One face good. Two moustaches bad. I am sad you never got free stuff because some of this Etat Pur goop, despite its slightly fascist name, is excellent, and also, because I think the Etat Pur schtick is right up your street.

M: Oh? I am raising a slightly revolutionary counterthinking eyebrow at it.

E: You’d like it, because it’s DIY. Basically, you make up your own skincare regime.

M: How is this up my street? I am way too lazy for DIY. Oh, I see. I LIKE IT.

E: So, eg, you choose from five textures of moisturizer, a couple of formulations of cleanser and so on, BUT, and this is the cool bit, then there are loads of targeted add ons, that you can add using amusingly tiny scientific dropper bottles.

M: OMYGODILOVETHATSTUFF. I LIKE IT ALREADY. GIVE ME FREE STUFF.

E: I was given many of the tiny sample bottles of, er, chemical magic to try. Obviously this is far too much like hard work for me. I don’t even know what most of these dropper bottles do.

M: Now you are just rubbing it in. I am supposed to be the skincare nerd in this dynamic duo! ME!

E: Hmm. Maybe I should send them to you, for testing with your safety goggles and lab coat? In the meantime, however, I have managed to master ONE of these tiny dropper bottle samples and very good it is too.

M: Oh yes? Tell me more, while I make faces of envy and skin-based frustration in the manner of a constipated elephant.

E: It’s called “A22 Salicylic acid 300“:

SCIENCEGASM. Look at the teeny tiny jars! The sciencey bottles! You know you love it. Obviously, at 38 I should not have a face full of blemishes, but life is a dick, so I do. This salicylic acid is for dabbing on said blemishes.

M: That is one of my favourite acids. Is it good? The blemishes are rife in this neighborhood. The blemishes are totally hogging the street corner.

E: The blemishes have taken over the low rises. Yeah, it totally does the trick. Takes down the redness. Chases the spots off the street corner with threats of an antisocial behaviour order.

M: Wow. It’s like paying protection money. For your skin.

E: I mean, it’s not, you know, MIRACULOUS. Community policing your face is slow, hard work, but it does the job. That’s what I like about this Etat Pur stuff: no exaggerated nonsenseclaims. No bullshit. And actually, for each product you can look at the actual clinical trial results on their Etat Pur website to see whether it actually does anything.

M: Ahahahhahahahhahahahahhahahahahhahahahhahahahhahahahhaha. Oh my god. The SkinPolice have got you. They have brainwashed you.

E: APPLY YOUR LAB COAT, M. JOIN ME. Because, see, I need to tell you this: Etat Pur is cheap. Moisturisers are £7.80 and the most expensive tiny pot of voodoo is only £14.20. I’m quite tempted by one of the ones for sensitive and reactive skin (Angry Monkey Face, basically).

M: Interesting. And 3 free samples with every order.

E: Three free samples that you get to CHOOSE. Not some old crap they’ve had hanging around since Christmas Secret Santa.

M: Hmm. Well. Maybe. I may give it a chance.

E: You have nothing to lose but your, erm, freedom? BARGAIN.

M: Oh yes? And what did you buy?

E: I cannot pretend I was really “feeling it”, the bright lip thing, but I persevered. They did not have Revlon so I bought a bright pink felt tip by Maybelline. It is called “Colour Sensational”. The sensation in question must be ‘extreme, painful dehydration’, for I have to tell you M, this felt tip pen for lips is AWFUL.

Color Sensational in front of the bin. WHERE IT BELONGS.

M: Uh oh. What does it do?

E: It is exactly the same as drawing on your lips with a felt tip pen when you are six.

M: Yes. But with a better selection of colours.

E: I suppose. And to give it its due, it’s more like the posh felt tip pens some of my mates were allowed that were scented, because it smells strongly of synthetic fruit flavouring. However, it also desiccated my lips to a husk.

M: Dry like the desert. And not “dessert” as I initially wrote.

E: A dry dessert is a sad, sad, thing.

M: True fact. Did you basically end up looking like Ogra from the Dark Crystal?

E: Yes. Yes I did (what the fuck is that?).

M: Does it have a built-in balm? I find that helps.

E: No, that might have helped. I hate it with the heat of a thousand suns. My children can use it to colour in the dog. It is never going near my face again.

M: Oh dear. But did you layer under lipstick? You are supposed to layer under lipstick, idiot!

E: I AM COMING TO THAT. Yes. I layered under a Rimmel Kate Moss lipstick, poetically called “5″. The Kate Moss was like an OASIS TO A DYING CAMEL after that felt tip pen débâcle.

M: Really?

E: Yes. It brought my sad sad lips back to a semblance of life. I was quite impressed with the formulation, which was really quite moisturising. Props, Rimmel.

M: Good. Were you pleased with the results, aesthetically?

E: I have sent you a picture.

M: Oh, very good. Very ‘modern’.

E: What do you think? It is bright. Flattering-ish? More or less suits my cadaverous complexion (though someone on my other blog disagreed and said it was too blue)?

M: Yes. You have a bit of the Bieber post-concert going on. I like it.

E: Yeah, that’s not really the look I was aiming for, but .. thanks?

M: Tell us about your adventures in bright lips, Facegoopists.

E: What is it now, M?

M: You know I have, how can I put this, problems. With hair.

E: Pfff, . I have a balding WIG. That’s a real hair problem. But continue.

M: It’s all over the place. On my head. On my chin.

E: Head: good. Chin: not so much.

M: OTHER PLACES TOO.

E: I see. I get the picture. Unfortunately.

M: And my eyebrows. They are bushy on the inside, sparse on the outside. What’s up with that, eyebrows?

E: Awkward buggers, eyebrows. So easy to get wrong. That’s why I have mine tattooed on by an expert.

M: I have lots of tweezers. They fall into the following categories:

1. Slippery
2. Bulky
3. Blunt
4. Rusty
5. Sticky

E: Ahahahahhaah it’s the seven tweezer dwarves. Well, the five tweezer dwarves.

M: When I had money, many many moons ago, I had a subscription at Browhaus. Those were the days, E.

E: Ah, yes, the days of milk and honey and GROOMING.

M: I’d pay someone to deal with my eyebrows. I’d recline in a cloud of talcum powder and wait for them to do their magic.But those days are long gone.

E: Gone, in a puff of HMRC smoke and global financial meltdown. Sucked into Gideon’s black hole.

M: I have to do my eyebrows on my own now, E, which is basically like someone taking your baby pet unicorn away.

E: That’s so harsh. Unimaginably cruel.

M: I know. It’s a good thing you sent me these Shavata tweezers, eh?

Tweezers, muzzled for M’s own safety

E: I did! Lovely Shavata sent me them and I had nothing to tweeze!

M: SHAVATA. Say it with me: SHHHAAAAVAAATAAAA.

E: SHAVATA. It is a nice word. Is she a person? Yes! Yes she is! I have found a picture!

M: I am pretty sure that Shavata used to be a skilled cardiac surgeon in another life, because these things are SHARP. They are “precision tweezers”, look:

E: Christ! You could extract a spleen with that.

M: You could pick out cactus spines with these, that’s how sharp they are. You could, in fact, extract a cactus spleen.

E: I bet you could also get a credit card out from between narrow floorboards with them. Not that I can imagine anyone would ever need that, ahem.

M: No. Or indeed, be silly enough to let that happen in the first place.

E: So. They are super pointy. But are they actually effective?

M: Yes. And that’s basically it. They are very effective. So effective in fact, that sometimes they snap the hair in half before you’ve had a chance to pull it out which is a bit annoying, but otherwise, yes. Very effective. Good tweezeing action. Deadly surgical precision.

E: Well, I suppose that’s as good as it gets until you can pay eunuchs to caress your brows off.

M: Mmmm, eunuchs. So high five, Shavata, whoever you are. Thanks to you, I do not look like Frida Kahlo.

Shavata Precision Tweezers, £19.50

M: I blame winter.

E: Yup, winter, you merciless, never-ending bastard. I have an eye infection. I look like my face has been savaged by hungry vultures. I have gone through twice my bodyweight in Laura Mercier mineral powder in three months. My beauty routine is now reduced to slapping whale grease on my chest twice daily, whilst weeping.

M: Tell me about it. My skin is scaly. My split ends epic.

E: My split NAILS are epic.

M: We are basically harpies. Harridans. HORRORS.

E: Gorgons. We scare off sailors at night. However. There is one tiny bright spot on the beauty horizon.

M: Is there? I can’t see anything, for it is half past two in the afternoon and already twilight.

E: Look closer. There is a tiny, purply grey spot of hope.

M: A purply grey spot does not sound promising, E. I have plenty of those, and I do not feel beautiful, let me tell you.

E: It’s ok, this purply grey bright spot is on my nails, for M, I have not only bought a nail polish I love, I have managed to apply it. SEVERAL TIMES. Look!

M: Nice. What is that you are holding on to? A glass of wine?

E: Possibly. Do you wish to make something of it?

M: No, no, I do not judge. I wholly approve of these new fingerclaws. It’s a nice colour. It suits you. It makes your breton top look effortlessly chic.

E: Thank you. “Effortlessly chic” = words never, ever associated with me, ever, not even by close relatives or men trying to get into my pants. That is how good this polish is. It is delicious. Its is Estée Lauder’s “Insatiable”. I don’t suppose she meant “insatiable for wine”, did she?

M: Would you describe yourself as insatiable, E?

E: No. Give me a bar of Milka TUC and some cheap red wine and I am easily satiated.

M: And is lavender grey your spirit animal colour of choice?

E: It might be. It is a nice colour. But being a nice colour only gets you so far. There are many nice colours in the world. The fantastic thing about this one is that it STAYS ON. IT DOES NOT CHIP. Seriously. I can usually worry my varnish off in under an hour. This lasted, like, five whole DAYS.

M: Is it easy to put on? Is it gloopy? annoyingly thin?

E: Like Our goopalike, Gwynnie? No. It’s almost perfect and I do not use that word lightly. It goes on smoothly, ungloopily, in the appropriate quantities leaving a nice smooth finish.

M: Whoa. I need to get me some of that stuff. Granny Lauder, she sure does know a thing or two about beauty.

E: One major reservation though. The brush has fallen out of the lid. I am having to shove it back up there on each application.

M: Errrrr. So by “perfect”, you meant “shit”.

E: No, despite this design flaw, I would quite literally go out to an actual shop AGAIN to buy another of these (it is a limited edition). That is how good the polish is. Also, it makes me want to investigate Granny Lauder’s varnishes more thoroughly.

M: Me too. Ha! E, did you know the Estée Lauder Spring 2013 Nail Varnish collection is called .. wait for it…   ”HEAVY PETAL”

E: Oh dear.

Estée Lauder Pure Color Nail Lacquer in Insatiable, £14.50

M: E, you know I favour bright lipsticks. Even more so now that I go swing dancing 15 times a week. The bright lip. It is essential.

E: So I hear. As essential as the full Brooklyn beard on the gentlemen.

M: However if you are not careful, you end up looking like a vampire who has been gorging on blood. Lipstick all over the face. Horrible ring of nastiness where it’s disappeared.

E: Dude, are you sure you’re doing this dancing thing right? Why do you need to smear your face on people?

M: It is all perfectly legit. But the lipstick needs to be long lasting.

E: You are licking those beards, aren’t you.

M: NO. Shall I tell you about my current favourites?

E: Do, please.

M: First: Laura Mercier lip stain. Mine is called “Mulberry” and it is a sort of dark berry colour. And when I say “mine”, I mean “I stole it from my flatmate”

E: Ha! I wondered where you were getting your sweaty fists on Laura Mercier cash.

M: It’s a very long lasting stain and the beauty of it is that it’s freakishly moisturizing. HOW DOES THAT WORK?

E: That’s FBI classified information, madam. Code black, need to know basis.

M: Laura Mercier would have to kill us if we knew

(she would do it herself)

(with a sniper rifle)

E: Don’t think she wouldn’t do it, she totally would. Let’s move onto less mortally dangerous lip colours please, M.

M: My second option is a double pronged affair. I start by colouring in my lips with a Revlon marker pen.

It smells of fruit.

E: “Just Bitten” Ow. See, that is not a selling point to me.

M: Yeah. See what I mean about the vampires. To compound the weirdness, mine is called “Passion”, I think. A sort of bright pink.

E: BEARD PASSION.

M: Shhh. So I colour my lips in, being careful to not go over the lines lest the teacher scold me.Then I apply a layer of Rimmel Kate Moss lipstick. I do not know its name.

E: “Lasting Finish”, I believe, M.

M: I meant the colour name. It is “22″: a matte bright pink-red. And the magic of this two stage thingy is that when the lipstick wears off, you are still left with bright colour on your lips! WOOP. I am pretty proud of my trick. EVERYBODY SHOULD BE DOING IT.

E: Everybody .. except me. You know what a lipcoward I am. I want to try this, but I don’t dare.

M: You are pathetic. I’m wondering whether maybe I shouldn’t even tell you about the third lipstick.

E: It’s ok, I can take it.

M: It might scare you away.

E: I am doing my yoga breathing. I can do this. Come on, flood me with lip colour.

M: Ok, it is Shiseido and was brought back from duty free by the flatmate(best. flatmate. EVER). Perfect Rouge, it is called, in shade “RD 514″, which has the added bonus of making it sound like an experiment. It is a proper red, deep and rich. It is very good quality. Moisturising, long lasting, unique, light reflecting colour. I am convinced, Shiseido.

E: Nice. I am glad you are out there doing colour. I can live vicariously through you, like a lipstick Miss Havisham.

M: You need to try it. It will brighten your life.

E: My sad, lonely, life. M, you have convinced me. I am going to try, but you are not to laugh when I look like a sad bowl of porridge with some jam in.

M: Be brave. You suit bright colours. WIth your pale complexion. OH GOD WE ARE BACK AT VAMPIRES AGAIN.

E: *Shimmers*

E: What’s the hurry? We haven’t posted since dinosaurs roamed Space NK, remember. Actually who are you?

M: WE ARE LATE FOR HERBOLOGY CLASS.

E: You’ve lost me.

M: Professor Sprout will kick our arses.

E: …..?

M: For god’s sake, Ron. I am doing a whole Harry Potter-Herbology thing. Keep up.

E: Oh. I have never read Harry Potter. I fail Herbology.

M: Which is ironic, as Herbology has not failed us.

E: You speak truth.

M: We have definitely failed it though. They sent us a huge package of stuff weeks and weeks ago and we still haven’t reviewed it.

E: Oh god. It’s true.

M: BAD BEAUTY BLOGGISTS. BAD.

E: Probably the worst beauty bloggists in the history of beauty bloggism.

M: It’s ok, we’ll say we were intensively testing it.

E: Which has the added advantage of being TRUE. And god knows, the poor Herbologists had their work cut out.

M: Our craggy, craggy, traumatised winter faces have tested Herbology like it has never been tested before.

E: Winter has been cruel, like something out of Game of Thrones (which I have also not read) and I have reverted to my natural state: half Medieval peasant, half badger.

M: Winter has Come. Harsh. Bitter. Windswept. And Elemental Herbology was here to keep the… bad stuff at bay. I think we’re just going to have to say it, E. WE LOVE ELEMENTAL HERBOLOGY.

E: I thought I would never love again. Yet here we are. Giddy. De-badgered.

M: I fell in love almost immediately. There was the giddy hyperventilation of opening up a care package of heavy glass jars. The sweet sweet smell of herbal whatever goes into it. The comfort of the duvet like textures. Shall we go through the products before our readers lose the will to read?

E: There aren’t any readers, M. We last updated our blog in 1896. But sure, let’s talk about cleanser into the howling void. The “Purify and Soothe” cleanser is excellent. Eve Lom-esque, but lighter. Nice camomile scent.

M: It was actually the product I liked the least. Mostly because I drunkenly managed to make the tube burst.

E: Eh? How the fuck did you do that?

M: I DO NOT KNOW. I WAS DRUNK. The balm was cold and I squeezed really hard.

M: Also, I find it a bit hard to remove.

E: You were probably drunkenly trying to wash your face with Windolene, or E45 cream. I like the texture because I am not a drunk.

M: It’s lovely. A very fine oily balm. What about the “Cell Active Rejuvenation” day moisturizer?

E: Easily absorbed. Soft and moisturising but not greasy. Nice bronzey cylinder like something you’d get at an awards ceremony.

M: Rose gold, I would call it.

E: Sure, whatever, tubesplitter.

M: This is the one with the hilarious french translation. “Creme du jour defroissante et raffermissante”. How would you translate defroissante?

E: Ha. “Uncreasing?”

M: Yes. Uncreasing and firming cream of the day.

E: Google Translate abuse: NEVER NOT FUNNY.

M: I like it. I was getting this weird rash on my limbs from the abhorrent cold a few weeks ago. Horrible itchy bumps all over my hands and arms and legs, but my face was fine, protected by the magic of Elemental Herbology.

E: Good. Moving on to the serum.

M: The serum is… good. Serumy.

E: And we wonder why we haven’t hit the big time yet. “Serumy”. Fucking hell. I haven’t really used the serum yet because I am finishing an expensive REN one a persuasive man made me buy.

M: It does nothing bad. I’m not sure if it does anything good. It is supposed to help congestion, but the traffic around Hackney Central was terrible this morning. BADOOM TISH.

*tumbleweed*

E: I’m just going to pretend I didn’t hear that, M. The night moisturiser? “Facial Souffle” (great name)?

M: I think this is my favourite thing. It’s like pressing a delicious tiramisu onto your face. LOVE LOVE LOVE.

E: I agree. It left me smooth and unscaly, whilst unlike tiramisu, it did not give me a double chin.

M: I do not feel ready for bed until I put it on.

E: It’s your creamy comfort blanket.

M: It is. And it does not bring out the facial pox, though it is wonderfully hydrating. Full marks, Herbologists. The other thing that is awesome is the facial peel. Put it on, leave it for four minutes, towel off, go to bed. Wake up with baby soft skin. It’s replaced Liquid Gold in my exfoliating affections.

E: It’s a winner. Light, non-irritant, very effective. After using it I wake up … not looking like a badger’s arse for once.

M: So we’ve covered the good, E. It is good. Very very good. All of it. Mad props, Elemental Herbology. Shall we mention the bad?

E: We are fearless in the pursuit of truth. Or is that cheese? It might be cheese.

M: HOLY MOTHER OF SWEET BALONEY ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THOSE PRICES?!?!??!

E: £44 for the night cream of joy. It would be cheaper to employ someone to caress my face with asses milk all night.

M: To be fair, it will last an eternity. I have used it every night for the past 2 months, and barely used a third.

E: I hope you’re not about to start spouting some “cost per wear” bullshit.

M: Hell no. But .. you know.

E: I do, but my inner Calvinist disapproves. Can I mention the hilarious patent stuff on the tubes?

M: Oh do. I have not noticed it. I was too busy being IN LOVE WITH THE PRODUCTS.

E: The packaging is CRAMMED with details of the many patents and patents pending in proprietary Herbology formulas. Frankly, it terrifies me. If my legal training serves me…

M: Uh oh. They’ve unleashed the IP lawyer in you.

E: … I suspect we are not even allowed to say the word “herb” any more, any of us. As we speak, the herbologists’ lawyers are running round Tescos slapping injunctions on the basil.

Yes. I need to issue one of our famous Facegoop Legal Warnings. Facegoop Legal Warning: Do not even try and say the word “herb” or “element” anymore. Step away from that bouquet garni. Science teachers: cease and desist.

M: E, I am not listening to you. I am too busy looking at their website. There are other products, E. OTHER ELEMENTAL HERBOLOGY PRODUCTS. Millions of them. Stuff for the body. Stuff for the face. OH GOD I WANT IT ALL.

E: Oh man. Bath oils. Circulation serums. Gngngngnngngn. The Herbologists know our weak spots.

M: They are not just terrifying legal minds, E. They are CRACK DEALERS. The first hit’s free.

E: That’s how they get you.

M: WE ARE DOOMED.

E: I’ll see you in the dumpster, M. I’ll be panhandling for a hit of Herbology. I might have sold all my teeth.

M: Yes. But least you’ll have soft skin.

The goodies that were sent to us for review:

Purify and Soothe facial cleanser – £28

Cell Active moisturiser – £55

Cell Food facial serum – £42

Facial Glow radiance peel – £39

 Facial Soufflé overnight cream – £44

M: Yo, E.

E: What is it M?

M: I need to tell you about my miracle cleansing balm.

E: Must you? We did my vegan jelly cleanser last time.

M: I know, but this is pure goodness. I read about it on Beauty Mouth. Do you know this blog?

E: Nope. In my spare time, I read Proust*.
(*Grazia)

M: It is run by Caroline Hirons, who is a facialist. This means she is a face expert.

E: Thanks for clearing that up.

M: She has a thing called the Thursday clinic where people can go and ask questions. It makes for addictive reading, like looking through someone’s dirty underwear drawer, or picking at a scab. Disgusting behaviour, basically. (who keeps their dirty underwear in a drawer?)

E: I am not judging. I wore a length of used dental floss on my glasses for an hour this morning without even noticing.

M: Anyway, she recommends this Emma Hardie Moringa Balm as the best cleanser ever ever ever.

E: “Moringa”, eh?

M: It sounds like a greeting.

E: Yes!Hawaiian perhaps.

M: “Moringa, Mma. Have you slept well?”. Let’s get back to the balm.

E: If you insist.

M: I’ve never been very lucky with balms. Liz Earle Cleanse and Polish? EYE STINGING FACE STRIPPING RUBBISH. Karin Herzog professional cleansing whatever it was called? EXTREMELY EXPENSIVE SWEET SMELLING VASELINE.

E: The lawyer in me feels a disclaimer coming on here, but I will ignore the impulse. How about Eve Lom? What litigious complaints do you have about her?

M: Never tried. Isn’t it full of mineral oils or something?

E: Sigh. I quite like it. ANYWAY. Your balm block has been broken, presumably ?

M: Yes. This one smells amazing. Like a spring of blooming orange trees. And it comes in a heavy glass jar, which is always pleasing. AND it feels lovely when you spread it on to your face. Like… goose fat. Sweet smelling goose fat.

E: Soft, delicious, full of French paradoxes.

M: I wonder if you could roast potatoes in this. It is a multitasker.

E: You want orange blossom scented potatoes? You are depraved.

M: You can use it as a mask or intensive moisturiser when things get dryyyy. Dry like the Arizona desert.

E: And what does it actually do to your face, M?

M: Smooth. Clear. Not angry, not monkey. Anything that will make my face look like this, has my undying loyalty, E.

E: I see. I bet it’s really dear, isn’t it?

M: Yes, kind of. £34 in the shops. I got mine for £26 off Ebay.

E: Hmmmm. “Spendy”, as the people would have us say.

M: Well. I think one pot would last for a couple of months. I only use it in the evening, after a quick wipe of La Roche Posay lotion.

E: Who is this Emma Hardie, anyway? She sounds like one of the Avengers. The sixties ones. Not Thor & co.

M: She might as well be. An Avenger. FOR THE FACE. Here.
She has something called “facefact workshop”. That sounds amazing. I want to be educated to do my own facial sculpting at home.

E: It seems to involve having your face flayed in the manner of the creepy German guy.

M: What?

E: You know, the German guy with the hat who flays people.

M: HA. Dr German von Gunther from Small Hat-am-Rhein

E: Jah, jah, genau! Hang on, we are getting distracted. Back to balm.

M: Ah yes. So: Emma Hardie Amazing Face Natural lift and sculpt Moringa cleansing balm. A facialist approved, orange blossom scented, goose fat, skin miracle.

E: Legal notice: face flaying should be part of a calorie controlled diet and can go up as well as down.