Matte, gloss, stain and frost are just some of the various types of lipsticks on the market to pump up even the most boring of lips without breaking the bank.
"Lipstick, as in all cosmetics, is catered to one's face," said Cosmetics Manager, Sandra Achkar of Shopper's Drug Mart.
"First I ask then when they're going to be wearing it?" said Achkar, of a series of questions that gives her a feel for what customers are looking for and what will look best on them. Questions like, "do they want a long wearing lipstick?" and "do they want a certain type of finish, like matter gloss or sheer?" narrow down the choices of some of the big brand names such as Lise Watier and Revlon to Shoppers Drug Marts' very own 'Quo' cosmetics line.
By asking the customer, "what colours are they wearing now, do they have a particular brand preference," and "if they want to try something completely different than they are normally use to," also helps to determine what lipstick would be most suitable for the individuals’ wants and needs.
"If they say they have no particular preference, then I suggest our own 'Quo' cosmetics line." They have testers in the store and the customer is more than welcome to try them on.
"This is all a process of elimination," said Achkar, who has been in the cosmetics for well over 12 years. When the customer still hasn't found what she is looking for "there is a safe colour." She said, "a combination of soft brown and dusty rose, like the matte finish of Rose Intemporel No. 568 from Lise Watier is a perfect example of this."
Prices vary anywhere between $2 for an NYC lip colour, to Revlon's, Lise Watier, and Shoppers home brand Quo that are a little more pricey, it just depends on how much you are willing to spend.
Overall, Achkar said, "every brand is known for something different, it's just a matter of testing them out at one time or another."
Read more on this article...
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
"TRASH, TRINKETS & TREASURES"
Tiny beads of sweat had formed above my brow. They danced in unison with every twist and turn I made before two of them decided to break free of the rest. They trickled down my cheeks as if racing to get to the bottom of my face, but then lingered as if to temporarily delay its fate.
Finally, they landed on the faded black t-shirt I was wearing along with many others before them. The day, one of the hottest in June proved to be far more sweltering inside the garage that outside of it. I’d chosen this particular day to clean out the garage after two years of putting it off and with good reason. I’d been repeatedly making silly excuses to avoid doing it when the reality was that I simply didn’t want to. It was a big job, a heavy job, a dirty job, and most importantly a very painful job.
I had dreaded moving things dad carefully placed in there himself after all these years. Unfortunately, the more I stood and stared at what looked like a pretty mess the more it became evident that something had to be done and soon. My worst fear was that the roof would eventually cave in with all the weight of the wood resting on the rafters and land on my car parked below. How would I have begun to explain that to my insurance company?
It had been two and half years since he’d passed away and I had been putting off this big job for several reasons. Dad had been such a pack rat and the garage had always been evidence of that. It was his own little dusty sanctuary of wood, tools and various nails he’d brought home from work; after all he spent the most time in there out of everyone else in the family. It’s a place where he’d spent hour’s perfectly storing things away, moving things around and trying to fit things into the smallest spaces. He went by the theory, “never throw things away because you never know when you might need them”.
Despite dads inability to throw away anything along with his preservation of decades gone by I’d couldn’t help but feel surrounded by the many stages of not only dads’ life but that of my own. All this had transported me on an emotional journey of blood, sweat and tears. There in the garage I stood alone, taking the last few refreshing sips from what I’d believed to be the fourth bottle of water I’d consumed since I began that morning. Water had formed outside the plastic bottle and I’d occasionally hold it up to my face for some much needed relief from the heat. One by one, I tossed the empty bottles into the recycling bin watching them gracefully hit the edge in slow motion before finally falling in. With arms crossed in my sweat soaked t-shirt and shaking my head in disbelief at the mess that awaited me, I was trying to decide where to begin and most importantly trying to anticipate when I’d finish. It appeared such a long way off at the time but I had to start somewhere and travel bit by bit around each side as I went through everything.
Assorted boxes of nails and partially used paint cans rested on the floor at the back while snow shovels neatly hung on rusty nail hooks by their handles adorned the wall right behind the mower and BBQ. Wood of all lengths and sizes tucked into the side pockets all the way around the perimeter seemed to hold up the walls as if to create a fortress of wood to protect the contents inside from the elements of the weather.
As I worked my way to the back of the garage I had remembered all the bicycles I ever had as a kid and looked way up to the back wall where they were each tied to the rafters with a thick white rope. It was there that I noticed my first tricycle, my first bicycle with the training wheels still in tact, my infamous 5-speed bicycle before finally graduating to my 10-speed in the later part of elementary school. The multicoloured striped baby carriage dad had given me for Christmas one year decades ago gently rested on an angle behind the many boxes of Barbie dolls and toy cars I used to spend hours entertaining myself with. Each one of them lovingly stored away with care by dad in hopes of some day being passed down to his grandchildren.
I couldn’t help but fondly look back at my own childhood. How could I not? It was an endless sea of special memories laid right before me. I sighed deeply and couldn’t help but be moved to tears revisiting decades gone past and the exciting adventures and dreams I had experienced courtesy of my dad. It wasn’t hard since he was always a big kid at heart and it showed through his patience and kind words. Yet, never failed to remind me of the importance of getting a good education, to aim high and follow my dreams for the future. He had come to this country over 50 years ago from his native Italy to find a better life which he did. Dad was a self-taught man. He learned to speak and read English through conversation and the many forms of media available to him, one being reading the daily newspaper.
I uncovered a cardboard box full of old Toronto Star newspaper clippings. The pages were crisp and yellowing but displayed years of history behind them. They’d covered important events and happenings throughout Canada and the entire world. Anything and everything from politics to sports and from health care to entertainment and it was all neatly stored away in that one box.
This has always had me wondering if he knew something that I didn’t at the time. Did he know that I would go into the field of writing and journalism one day? His own fascination with the many forms of media and his thirst for knowledge prompted me to believe that he really was.
It took mom and me an entire day to finish. We’d have been done a lot sooner but couldn't help ourselves from stopping to reminisce and rest between each section we had gone through. With daylight fading fast the garage became nothing more than a dusty room of dark silhouettes and we knew we had to start wrapping things up. We managed to do that just in time with the sun slowly setting in the distance. The patio looked like a tornado had hit it with the things that needed discarding laying there on the ground. All that could be seen were several piles of wood, various metal poles, old cardboard boxes that needed recycling and the frame of an old bed he was saving to use as an extra guest bedroom one day.
All in all it was a very productive, exhausting and memorable day. Not only did this major cleaning decide the fate of my garages future but that of my cars as well. I’m sure dad had his reasons and valid reasons at that for collecting all that he did. The fact that he’d safely kept all my childhood memories and perhaps what might appear as my path to the future says a lot about my dad and the warm hearted man that he was. He’d always look to the future. My future and I’d like to think he’s watching me accomplish my dreams from heaven one newspaper clipping at a time.
Read more on this article...
Finally, they landed on the faded black t-shirt I was wearing along with many others before them. The day, one of the hottest in June proved to be far more sweltering inside the garage that outside of it. I’d chosen this particular day to clean out the garage after two years of putting it off and with good reason. I’d been repeatedly making silly excuses to avoid doing it when the reality was that I simply didn’t want to. It was a big job, a heavy job, a dirty job, and most importantly a very painful job.
I had dreaded moving things dad carefully placed in there himself after all these years. Unfortunately, the more I stood and stared at what looked like a pretty mess the more it became evident that something had to be done and soon. My worst fear was that the roof would eventually cave in with all the weight of the wood resting on the rafters and land on my car parked below. How would I have begun to explain that to my insurance company?
It had been two and half years since he’d passed away and I had been putting off this big job for several reasons. Dad had been such a pack rat and the garage had always been evidence of that. It was his own little dusty sanctuary of wood, tools and various nails he’d brought home from work; after all he spent the most time in there out of everyone else in the family. It’s a place where he’d spent hour’s perfectly storing things away, moving things around and trying to fit things into the smallest spaces. He went by the theory, “never throw things away because you never know when you might need them”.
Despite dads inability to throw away anything along with his preservation of decades gone by I’d couldn’t help but feel surrounded by the many stages of not only dads’ life but that of my own. All this had transported me on an emotional journey of blood, sweat and tears. There in the garage I stood alone, taking the last few refreshing sips from what I’d believed to be the fourth bottle of water I’d consumed since I began that morning. Water had formed outside the plastic bottle and I’d occasionally hold it up to my face for some much needed relief from the heat. One by one, I tossed the empty bottles into the recycling bin watching them gracefully hit the edge in slow motion before finally falling in. With arms crossed in my sweat soaked t-shirt and shaking my head in disbelief at the mess that awaited me, I was trying to decide where to begin and most importantly trying to anticipate when I’d finish. It appeared such a long way off at the time but I had to start somewhere and travel bit by bit around each side as I went through everything.
Assorted boxes of nails and partially used paint cans rested on the floor at the back while snow shovels neatly hung on rusty nail hooks by their handles adorned the wall right behind the mower and BBQ. Wood of all lengths and sizes tucked into the side pockets all the way around the perimeter seemed to hold up the walls as if to create a fortress of wood to protect the contents inside from the elements of the weather.
As I worked my way to the back of the garage I had remembered all the bicycles I ever had as a kid and looked way up to the back wall where they were each tied to the rafters with a thick white rope. It was there that I noticed my first tricycle, my first bicycle with the training wheels still in tact, my infamous 5-speed bicycle before finally graduating to my 10-speed in the later part of elementary school. The multicoloured striped baby carriage dad had given me for Christmas one year decades ago gently rested on an angle behind the many boxes of Barbie dolls and toy cars I used to spend hours entertaining myself with. Each one of them lovingly stored away with care by dad in hopes of some day being passed down to his grandchildren.
I couldn’t help but fondly look back at my own childhood. How could I not? It was an endless sea of special memories laid right before me. I sighed deeply and couldn’t help but be moved to tears revisiting decades gone past and the exciting adventures and dreams I had experienced courtesy of my dad. It wasn’t hard since he was always a big kid at heart and it showed through his patience and kind words. Yet, never failed to remind me of the importance of getting a good education, to aim high and follow my dreams for the future. He had come to this country over 50 years ago from his native Italy to find a better life which he did. Dad was a self-taught man. He learned to speak and read English through conversation and the many forms of media available to him, one being reading the daily newspaper.
I uncovered a cardboard box full of old Toronto Star newspaper clippings. The pages were crisp and yellowing but displayed years of history behind them. They’d covered important events and happenings throughout Canada and the entire world. Anything and everything from politics to sports and from health care to entertainment and it was all neatly stored away in that one box.
This has always had me wondering if he knew something that I didn’t at the time. Did he know that I would go into the field of writing and journalism one day? His own fascination with the many forms of media and his thirst for knowledge prompted me to believe that he really was.
It took mom and me an entire day to finish. We’d have been done a lot sooner but couldn't help ourselves from stopping to reminisce and rest between each section we had gone through. With daylight fading fast the garage became nothing more than a dusty room of dark silhouettes and we knew we had to start wrapping things up. We managed to do that just in time with the sun slowly setting in the distance. The patio looked like a tornado had hit it with the things that needed discarding laying there on the ground. All that could be seen were several piles of wood, various metal poles, old cardboard boxes that needed recycling and the frame of an old bed he was saving to use as an extra guest bedroom one day.
All in all it was a very productive, exhausting and memorable day. Not only did this major cleaning decide the fate of my garages future but that of my cars as well. I’m sure dad had his reasons and valid reasons at that for collecting all that he did. The fact that he’d safely kept all my childhood memories and perhaps what might appear as my path to the future says a lot about my dad and the warm hearted man that he was. He’d always look to the future. My future and I’d like to think he’s watching me accomplish my dreams from heaven one newspaper clipping at a time.
Read more on this article...
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