Jars of LaMer, Sisley, Erno Laszlo lined the counter in their proper order, heavy glass jars quietly shimmering with some secret that belonged to the world of grown women. Often, she would pull out far less glamorous tubes and pots that were normally hidden from view, tacky bottles covered with Korean or Japanese lettering purchased from the back aisles of Asian grocery stores, not Neiman Marcus, yet fiercely treasured and zealously guarded secrets nonetheless.
The lineup on my bathroom counter looks nothing like my mom's. She used the highest end products that money could buy in the States, which in the 80s and 90s invariably meant French, Swiss, or at the very least American that tried to pass as French. The Secret Stash of Korean and Japanese products — the scrubs strong enough to exfoliate sin itself, cleansers smelling of the sort of good green tea only Asians would be able to discern — were relegated to getting tossed in bins under the sink, pulled out for use when needed. And they were needed often. Whatever else was being peddled in those heavy glass jars, quality skincare often was not it. Tokens of luxury, a psychological cocoon, a tangible sign of privilege, of finally belonging — these were what my mom really bought with her hard earned money in the heated years of the Reagan and Bush administrations. And let's face it, all the "good" stuff was incredibly, starkly, white people stuff.
A glossy, perky, Korean face stared at me blown up bigger than life to showcase all the bottles of quirky potions my mom spent my childhood years hiding away. It was more than worlds colliding; it was a veil being lifted between the worlds I spent my adult life navigating between — shopping at the same mix of Neiman Marcus and Asian grocery stores my mom did, and realizing that their value and meaning were completely reversed. In the years since, I've had to confront the psychological weirdness of hearing white girls from Iowa rave about the benefits of snail mucus and unironically drop words like "chok chok" in their skincare reviews on YouTube, while the value of "prestige" names, the French (or French-sounding) brands women of my mother's generation automatically equated with quality, plummeted.
These days, I still have the brands my mom favored. But they stay crammed in the bottom of my bathroom cabinets while the daily lineup, the lineup I rely on to unwind and quietly indulge myself, are unabashedly and proudly Asian. It feels like coming home.
