Rhymes with maul

I know my flatmate was desperate when she made me her designated shopper.

I think she knew it, too: She gave me a detailed list of all the cosmetics she wanted in Hong Kong, helpfully including photos, estimated prices and descriptions in English and Hanzi.

What choice did she have? HK is where the Mainland shops for toiletries, makeup and all the luxury items that aren't available in the old-school PRC. I was going to Hong Kong. Therefore, it was my duty to bring her back the coveted items she so desperately desired she would trust them in the hands of someone whose only makeup purchases in the past 20 years have consisted of lip balm, moisturizing lotion and, on a couple of occasions, lipstick.

In an effort to prove myself less than totally incompetent, I accepted this charge with as much grace as I could muster (hint: not much).

But, fuck. It wasn't easy.

I should make one thing very clear: I hate malls. Can't stand the things. Their eerie, too-bright lighting and zombie-like crowds fill me simultaneously with claustrophobia and agoraphobia; the maze of hallways disorients me and I grow increasingly panicky as I search fruitlessly for stores and products I'm sure are right in front of me but I can't see for the glare and everyone else seems to know exactly where they're going and is it just me or is the stale air growing more sickly sweet the longer I stay here and HOLY CRAP WHERE IS THE EXIT?

So, yeah. It was rough.

Finally, after putting myself at the mercy of several jaded salespersons, I found the desired brands and paid more than any sane person ever would for a bunch of products whose purpose I'm still struggling to identify. I think you smear it on your face. But that's mostly guesswork on my part.