Sephora Has My Number

I have been a big fan of makeup since I was 13. It was both a fun way to express my style and something that made me feel more comfortable in my own acne-prone skin.

However, despite wearing it every day, I did not splurge much on makeup in my youth (perhaps because I was broke and simply couldn’t) and was content to make do with a few discounted items from the drugstore makeup aisle.

But in my thirties, three things changed:

1. I was at a point in my career where I finally had some disposable income.
2. I became less obsessed with makeup and more concerned with skincare. (In particular, slowing the development of the dreaded “11s” between my eyebrows.)
3. I discovered Sephora, or rather, it discovered me and my burning desire for high-end skincare products. I don’t know how, but one day, there it was in my Facebook newsfeed: a glittering, tantalizing carousel of product recommendations.

It was the perfect storm of circumstances and I didn’t stand a chance. I clicked on their ad and so began my enslavement.

My addiction started out innocently enough; a small bottle of oil-controlling moisturizer here, a vial of anti-aging serum there.

But the more products I used, the more I wanted to try. I loved receiving Sephora boxes in the mail. I got giddy about each item’s own pretty packaging. I had fun experimenting with different brands and I became obsessed with assembling the best lineup for my a.m. and p.m. skincare regime.

Sephora reminded me of my moisturizer mania every time I logged onto Facebook. Their ads were customized for me right down to the very products I had been looking at on their website the day before.

Then I signed up to become a “VIB” (Very Important Beauty) member, which promised rewards and exclusive offers. Once they got a hold of my email address it was all downhill from there.

Every day Sephora bombarded my inbox with vaguely demanding subject lines like, “Make sure you pick these up” and, “Check this out before tomorrow”.

I did as I was told.

The impulse to buy was made even stronger by all the free samples and trial-sized products that I could claim just by using their coupon-code-du-jour at the checkout.

Fast forward to today and I have more skincare products taking up space in my bathroom than I could possibly apply to my face in the next five years.

The other day, I was in search of something to write about for Vocal’s Spring Forward Challenge about organization, and I opened the top drawer of my bathroom cabinet, thinking I could do a piece on organizing my makeup and skincare collection.

The drawer was so rammed full of products and samples that they spilled out and I had trouble closing it again. I didn’t end up writing about it for the Challenge because I was incapacitated by shame. (That, and I never got around to organizing it.)

But this led me to check my Sephora order history, curious (and afraid) to see how much money I’ve thrown at the brand in the 3+ years I’ve been shopping there. What I found is that I'd reached their top-tier membership, “Rouge” within months of my first order and had maintained that status ever since.

To be a Rouge member, you need to spend at least $1000 annually on their products and services. That means I have spent well over $3000 on Sephora skincare products since that first fateful click, the vast majority of which being moisturizers and serums.

It’s a sobering number. I mean, A 4000-year-old mummy couldn’t use that much moisturizer.

I know what you’re going to ask next: Now that I’m keenly aware of my problem, what do I plan to do about it?

And the answer is, not a heck of a lot.

I have made a conscious decision to scale back on my beauty binging and stop stockpiling free samples I'll never use.

But the truth is, Sephora has my number. Anytime they show me something they think I might like, whether it be through ads or emails, I click through to their website more often than not.

I know it’s only a matter of time (days, really) until I place my next order.

But show me someone who says they don’t have any vices and I’ll show you a liar - or at least, someone who hasn’t tried top-shelf moisturizer.

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