Pretty Good Advice

For People Who Dream Big and Work Harder

Leslie Blodgett

• Publisher: ABRAMS Image
• Year: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781683358848
• Topic: Persönliche Entwicklung
• Subtopic: Persönlicher Erfolg

"[A] new literary genre, the MBA Memoir... Delivers 97 pearls of warmth, wit and wisdom from the most inspirational entrepreneur I have ever met." —Frances Edmonds, bestselling author of Repotting Your Life Called the "Queen of Beauty" and the most influential lone woman to impact the beauty industry since Estée Lauder by the New York Times, Leslie Blodgett's story is anything but ordinary. As the CEO of BareMinerals, she reinvented how beauty was sold by tapping into the power of community before the idea of social media existed. In 2006, Blodgett took the company public in one of the largest cosmetic IPOs of the decade, and in 2010, the company was acquired for $1.8 billion. Pretty Good Advice is her next chapter.This refreshing book features 97 candid and entertaining insights on business, life, and beauty. Personal and often surprising, Blodgett dishes on leading with humor, why wearing blush and reading obituaries are two of the most optimistic things you can do, and why you owe it to your coworkers not to be boring. Pretty Good Advice is full of frank, actionable advice to help light a fire under you. "If you want to laugh, get totally inspired, learn a bunch and enjoy reading something so engrossing you won't put it down but you could because it's written in these amazing one-ish-page chunks, GET IT. Could not be better for right now." —Jean Godfrey June, Beauty Editor, GOOP "A moving and clear-eyed memoir of an extraordinary life. Charmingly made-up as a how-to guide, Leslie chronicles that life in vivid and memorable lessons that jump off the page." —John W. Evans, author of Should I Still Wish

Beauty
Is
Generous

1. As they were taking the bandages off Janet Tyler’s face, the nurses looked on with dread. This was the eleventh surgery attempt to make her look normal. As the final bandage was lifted, the nurses shrieked, “No! No! It didn’t work!” The poor woman was the same “twisted lump of flesh” that had arrived at the hospital the first time.

Janet was traumatized. She was still Janet, blond with petite features, smooth skin, and sculpted eyebrows. Her doctor and nurses? They had the faces of monsters. That’s because they were in The Twilight Zone. “Eye of the Beholder” was my favorite episode.

There was no shortage of women on TV looking like Janet and not like me growing up, and I idolized every one of them. But, lucky for me, all it took was a little science fiction to make me question everything. Early on I started to wonder who gets to decide who is beautiful.

The media has a lot to say about it. They put pictures in our heads to influence our thoughts and convince us they are right. They push their standards of beauty because that works—it sells stuff, and we eat it up. But the version of beauty we see all the time is just one part of the story.

I have seen trends come and go, and I have witnessed the low self-esteem that results from constantly seeing these hard-to-avoid images of so-called beauty. I’ve been there too. There was a time when I used to hope my legs would grow longer and my nose would shrink. Prizing certain body shapes and facial features is a fabricated construct that society is feeding us. No way am I going to look like them. And why should I?

Here is something I know. Being in the beauty industry for four decades, I have had the privilege to travel widely and meet thousands of women one-on-one. Not from a stage looking at a mass of people, but in person. So close I could count their eyelashes. I have seen so many interpretations of “beautiful” that it would take your breath away, because it has for me. I have had no choice but to expand my own vision of what beauty is just by looking around me and studying faces. (I’m not stalking you; it’s admiration.) Faces hold truths, they tell of life experiences, they reveal character and express emotion.

The most compelling story of beauty is its generosity. It’s not restrictive, not exclusive. The more you see it, the more you understand it. And understanding leads to caring about other people and their journey. It also leads to caring more about yourself.

Don’t believe everything they tell you about what is or isn’t beautiful. It’s horsefeathers. The more beauty you see in the world, the more beautiful you become.

Makeup
Has
Your Back

2. I was thirteen. Full metal braces with springy rubber bands, zits on my forehead, and hair that didn’t follow instructions. It was game day. I was on the junior high school kickline, and I had just finished putting on my blue eyeshadow and pink frosty lip balm. I looked in the mirror and gave myself a thumbs-up. I walked into the kitchen, where Mom was cooking French toast for her most recent “gentleman friend.” He looked up from the paper and said, “Don’t worry, kid, you’ll be pretty someday.”

What a freakin’ jerk.

After I’d pulled the knife out of my heart, I decided it didn’t matter what that jerk thought. I loved how makeup made me feel, how it covered my zits and made my eyes sparkle, and mostly how it was a way to express myself. I was no Farrah Fawcett, but I was my own version of pretty.

Me, circa the French toast incident

Daydreaming
Is Working
on Stuff

3. I was so skilled at daydreaming as a kid that at times I feared I would fall headfirst into a fantasy and miss dinner. My most prolific sessions were sitting in the backseat of the car, leaning into the window with the sun rays beating me into a trance. I would be living it up in my head: winning at track meets, speaking fluent Spanish, performing onstage without a hitch.

In the 1980s, I heard that such imagining had a name: “creative visualization.” This technique looks a lot like spacing out. So, naturally, people you live with may accuse you of being a sloth, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. You are working on stuff. Daydreaming is a mystery trip with no goal and no destination. Who knows where you will wind up? Your imagination is boss. Nowadays, for me, it’s like taking a nap with Deepak Chopra or Bradley Cooper (well, as long as I’m taking a nap with people).

If someone in your home tells you to “snap out of it,” refuse.

Tell them you’re in a meeting of the mind.

First Jobs
Build
Character

4. The minute I turned sixteen, I got my first (real) job, one where I paid taxes and got $.25 raises. I adored my blue polyester pantsuit* with fabric that breathed like a dragon. I was employed part-time at McDonald’s, where I worked my way up from sweeping the parking lot to cooking burgers. I learned a ton, like how to upsell the apple pie. Sure, I was covered in grease after my shift. But the experience stuck with me. I could absolutely make a Big Mac today (and I can still sing the Big Mac song). One of my favorite things about the job—besides the outstanding teamwork and crushing the high-action lunch rush—was that I learned from a co-worker how to do the multi-eyeshadow application technique using muted shades of purple. And I pierced someone’s ear during my lunch break.

Take pride in your first job.

* I worked at two different McDonald’s, which meant two different uniforms—one hamburger brown, and the other powder blue. And we had hats.

Ramble,
Sometimes

5. In the 1960s, my dad drove a black Rambler with a red interior. We didn’t wear seat belts back then, and there was a nice-sized hole in the floor. It was so cool: When we looked down, we could see the street speeding beneath us on our way to Buddy Burgers. “Rambler” was an odd name for a car. Definition of “ramble” from the internet: “Move aimlessly or without any specific destination, often in search of food or employment.” This did not describe my dad; he was a beloved high school biology teacher and the most fun dad on the block. He would sing and dance in the grocery store, teach us how to sketch comic book characters, and bring home candy on Friday nights.

Best dad ever. Everyone loved Dad.

Except Mom. They were divorced in 1972, one month before my tenth birthday. While my mother was freed from the confines of an unpredictable husband who did things like buy a used car with a hole in the floor, we kids were stunned by the sudden turn of events. It was a confusing next couple of years (decades), because he loved his kids more than life. But he chose to leave for good. The divorce was never discussed, and we were expected to carry on. Some people would call that cruel—and I would say, yep, it was cruel—but we all learned to develop coping mechanisms.

Like keeping busy. My school days were full. Idling wasn’t an option. Being busy filled my time, but the minute I left home for college, I lost my way. I knew I was off track, but I couldn’t steer my way back. Until a few years later, when, with my mother’s nudging, I found some direction.*

And while I have tried my best to forget those times, I own them now. If you find you’re out there rambling, don’t feel bad about it. It doesn’t have to stop your journey; it can just be part of it—left turns included.

* See N^o6. Thanks, Mom.

Thanks,
Mom

6. Moms sometimes have a funny way of showing they care. After two years of college, I moved to Florida for a few months. (I didn’t drop out; I just decided not to go back.) I needed fresh air and time to think before I could imagine my path forward. One evening, after a long shift at the Ponderosa Steakhouse, I opened this letter:

Dear Leslie,

Consider what you will do if FIT doesn’t work out for you next fall. Do you have an alternative plan? You’d better think about it, or you’ll be working as a waitress all your life. How does that sound?

All for now.

Love,
Mom

The truth is: I’ve spent most of my life trying not to disappoint my mother, and that has actually turned out to be pretty good motivation. Also, she was right. What was I doing with my life?

The sweetest pic I could find of Mom and me

Lower
Your
Bar

7. I like my bars low, where I can see them—and clear them. Strangely enough, I was also the queen of the limbo—the only time it is OK for your friends to chant, “How low can you go?” I actually have two pictures of me mid-limbo: one from my birthday party circa 1970, and the other from my honeymoon, with me wearing a red bikini on a pirate ship in Antigua.* The limbo is not easy—it takes flexibility, concentration, and strategy, all good skills for excelling in life.

I like my bar in view instead of in the constellations. I like to see where I’m headed, so I can plan my attack and make my move.

So decide where you like your bar. I totally appreciate how a high bar is motivational for some people, but I like the momentum of making progress. Set your own bar, a bar you can reach. Then another. And another. And guess what we just made? A ladder.

Now, you can go as high as YOU want.

* DO NOT allow anyone to take photos of you doing the limbo. Especially if you are good at it.

Get
Desperate

8. Because of my obsession with all things beauty, Mom convinced me to apply to the new Cosmetics and Fragrance Marketing program at the Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT) in New York City. I didn’t get in, because I didn’t have any beauty industry experience. This problem wasn’t as easy to solve as you’d think. The Dior counter wouldn’t hire me because I didn’t have any beauty experience. Bloomingdale’s wouldn’t hire me because I didn’t have any beauty experience.

What’s a beauty hopeful supposed to do in this chicken-and-egg scenario? The obvious. I stood outside the Bloomingdale’s buying office door every morning for a week. It was inconvenient for everyone involved. A narrow hallway led to the office, so the buyers had to brush by me to get to work every day. They finally hired me (to make me ...