I like to think of myself as an educated woman: finishing high school was mandatory in my mind, and attending university afterwards was definitely the goal. Despite it being much maligned in some circles, I got a BA. To study the humanities is to learn how people think, what makes society what it is today. To explore the various aspects of existence.

One would assume that a person who has this sort of academic background would know better than to be sucked into marketing hype over the next brand spanking new limited edition lipgloss – especially when it resembles at least a dozen other lipglosses I own...

Wrong. I am not immune.

Despite reading those cultural theorists harp on about Marxism and the oppression of the working classes, or poststructuralism politely informing us grace à Jean Baudrillard that everything has been done before and that the ‘original’ of an object no longer exists rah rah rah, you dangle bath products that resemble sweets, or lip products in the most adorable packaging with a cute yet saucy name and bang! All such learning is blissfully tossed out the window and I’m pulled towards these pretty yet unnecessary things as if by a tractor beam. (You know, like on the classic arcade game Galaga?)

Pretty sad, isn’t it? I figure as long as I’m not in debt and my so-called poison of choice isn’t bad for my health in the way recreational drugs or smoking tobacco etc. is, it’s all peachy... right?

Of course, I wasn’t always a mindless drone in regards to beauty - admittedly I’m exaggerating ever so slightly. My high school years were truly miserable, because my mother was fairly strict and concerned that an interest in anything even hinting at burgeoning sexuality would end up with me sullying the family name.

Beautification, for me, was therefore largely associated with shame and fear, not something to embrace or celebrate. What was the point of bettering one’s appearance at a time when I should have been focussing on my studies? Besides, all that nice girl stuff cost money and I was apparently expensive and wasteful enough, Western-born ingrate that I was.

My blissful transformation began with a little trip back to my birthplace – London – in 2002. I stayed with a family we’d known for as long as I could remember, in Croydon. I became closest to the lady, a woman my mother’s age, and her youngest son. Our bonding was significantly helped by shopping – both browsing and purchasing.