It's gonna get sappy up in here.
I was in Paris in early October to shop, cover Paris Fashion Week, and attend Le Bal -- a fancy-schmancy black-tie soiree hosted by MAC Cosmetics to fete Carine Roitfeld and their newly released cosmetic collaboration.
Le Bal's dress code was super strict -- Black Tie, Smoky Eye. Further instruction revealed that guests were permitted to wear all black, all white, or mixture of both, so obviously I chose the latter and turned up at the Hôtel Salomon de Rothschild in what can best be described as a little bit of my downtown style mishmashed with a little bit of their uptown glamour. When I stepped into the ballroom (my Cinderella moment was everything), I was wearing a black silk floor-length peplum ballgown skirt over a clingy white cotton t-shirt, along with a few Paris-perfect accoutrement.
Also, the aforementioned and expected smoky eyes, as well as several star stencils that Roitfeld designed. (Gala recently bought a set; I wore a shitload of them to the party.)
As you can see pictured above -- the men in attendance took the dress code quite seriously as well. I spied several straight guys wearing makeup. And a lot of it. See those smoky eyes? See those star stencils? See that highlighter? Le sigh!
Am I the only one perplexed by this? (#SorryNotSorry Adam Lambert, Russell Brand, Zac Efron, Pete Wentz, Criss Angel, et al.) Personally, I think manscaping has gotten a bit out of hand. It's one thing to revel in the moment and cheekily follow instructions on a party invitation or get all gussied up and dust a little powder on your T-zone if you're performing -- it's entirely another to ask your wife to paint your nails black for you every week. (Yep, you read that right.)
I mean, I'm A-OK with men wearing ponytails and boy buns, but I draw the line at spending more time in the loo primping than I do. (Not possible, by the way.) I could possibly never see myself with a man who asks to share my eyeliner.
What about you? Tell me -- am I archaic in wanting to reserve makeup for women and gay men?
P.S. --Back to Carine Roitfeld. I also hung out at her apartment, immediately after which I damn near died. Best. Night. Ever!
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