Sephora is my happy place

Ok, so as addictions go a moderately overpriced beauty store may seem relatively harmless. And it's certainly not very rock and roll. But I am poor, people, and that makes my constant Sephora cravings dehabilitating as fuck.

It just that it's such a lovely place. Honestly, it's magical. It's like, you're having a shitty day and then you go in and it's all warm and calm and it smells nice. And all these pretty, colourful things are laid out neatly, and there are intriguing contraptions marked 'Tester' just begging to be played with. Plus, there are a bunch of perfectly made-up women and studiedly metrosexual men wandering about wearing, these artillery belts filled with make up brushes, like the minions of an army that just wants to make things look nice.

All which would be fine, if I could just soak in the soothing atmosphere for a while then leave, finances intact. But there's something in the air in Sephora that makes me want... stuff. All kinds of stuff. I'm not entirely sure what I bought yesterday but it was pink and sparkly and totally had miniature snowflakes pressed into the powder and I wanted it.

This is new to me. Like, last Christmas my sister got a load of posh makeup and I totally scorned her, all 'honestly Faye, what a total waste of money. I only ever buy Collection 2000'. But in Sephora, £35 Givenchy blush cubes make total sense. How could the world carry on being lovely without them?

What's more, they give you PRESENTS. If you buy a ridiculously overpriced eyeshadow, or some magic-pink-snowflake-powder (the label is in French, ok? I'm pretty sure I'm meant to put it on my face), you get home and discover that in the bag there's a teeny tiny perfume sample, or a thimbleful of exfoliator that smells of freshly baked cheesecake or something. How is anybody supposed to resist that?

I might well have discovered this luxury cosmetics addiction sooner, if it wasn't for my absolute terror of department store makeup floors. Seriously, enter Liverpool Debenhams and not only is it all so white and sterile and shiny that you worry somebody might take out your appendix, but you are immediately descended upon by a hoarde of ladies with drawn on eyebrows who are only a penis away from very successful careers as drag artistes, who will paint you orange and bully you into spending millions of pounds. Worlds away from the tranquility of Sephora.

In fact, the only part of the Sephora experience that is not blissful is coming home and checking your bank balance. Which... oh God... is pretty damn stressful. I need to calm the hell down.

Maybe a trip to Sephora is in order...