Bridget Foley’s Diary: LVMH, A Matter of Pride

Whatever is the opposite of a beauty junky, I’m it. Fifty options of beige and brown for my face and eyes agitate rather than exhilarate, like the angsty process of distilling a million swatches down to that single perfect shade of white paint. I shop for makeup out of dire need, not for fun. Yet I experienced one of my most memorable shopping moments at a Sephora. Two Christmases ago, on the hunt for a fragrance for a 13-year-old girl, I selected something youthful and headed for checkout. “Would you like it monogrammed?” a woman asked, motioning toward an etching machine. When I said that I didn’t know the girl’s initials, only her first name, Amanda, the woman looked quizzical until I told her that I’d taken the girl’s ornament from an angel tree. “Let’s do ‘Amanda,’” she said. The no-charge process was tedious (at least to an impatient type), starting with expert removal of the cellophane covering the box, to be restored at the end of the process. The bottle then went under the machine needle, forming each letter deliberately and slowly. With the last curve of the last “a” complete, the woman wasn’t satisfied with the depth of relief. Despite

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