I’ve been Mr. Goldblum’s personal makeup artist for over a decade now, back when people called it “cosmetic palette stalking.” I couldn’t have predicted that I’d live a glamorous life strapped to a fanny pack filled with blotting paper. I suppose I’ve always been into the latest makeup trends, walking away with free products regularly because I was stealing them from department store counters.
Honestly, the stunned faces on security guards and the sarcastic applause from other customers as police handcuffed me behind my back were just the nudges I needed. When I wasn’t engaging in department store consumption, I was painting day and night. In jail, I had the realization that I could paint faces instead of canvases.
It was exciting to come to this realization!
“Why is this handcuffed woman using shadow to make my eyelids pop?!?! WE’RE NOT FRIENDS!!!”
Wearing fancy hotel slippers I had stolen the night before, I set off for New York City, where I trained in the ancient Egyptian practice of applying dark eyeliner with a dangerous loss of grip. I haven’t looked back. Sir Jeff and I are best Goldblumming buddies.
I’ll never forget our first encounter. He frantically turned to the maître d and yelled, “Why is this handcuffed woman using shadow to make my eyelids pop?!?! WE’RE NOT FRIENDS!!!”
A classic Goldblumism.
My job becomes a little dicey when I’m applying makeup in His and Her whirlpool bathtubs, after-hours, uninvited. Or when I’m jogging dangerously close to Mr. Goldblum and his wife at their side-by-side treadmills in their houseboat. I quickly explain that I gotta roll and I Crayola his eyes in no time! The point is, Mr. Goldblum and I are camera-ready for anything.
One assignment had me working on my esteemed client’s eyes for hours and hours only to be told that he’ll be wearing a motorcycle helmet for the red carpet event. That’s just how Hollywood works. Sometimes you skillfully transform the human canvas into the desired character only to be told that his face will be completely covered and also you’re in violation of that restraining order.
My makeup pouch is my jetpack and I’m here to reduce the puffiness and dark circles of my Oscar, Emmy, Genie and Drama Desk Award nominated client, so… where is he? I’m serious. I’ve lost track of him. Apparently, Jeff Goldbottoms has traveled off-site. As in: He stopped answering my texts. I so wish he and I were the same height.
At eleven feet tall, my feet need to be covered in skyscraper shoes if I don’t want to miss his face with my blush wand. And today’s a tall day. When I first started applying loose bronze shimmer to Professor Blum ten years ago, he was shorter than Zac Efron. I don’t know why, but the fly-hybrid actor refuses to age normally.
JG knows I own plenty of incredible hand-me-down makeup and that my spa holster is bursting with old miracle products. It’s very sensual to work on someone’s face. For film, televised debates, and 4th of July promotions. Jeffrey’s signature makeup look is kohled cat eyes with lashings of mascara and brushed up eyebrows.
For a casual Saturday, he prefers Luchador and peppermint lip balm. For Comic-Con, I use a Jurassic Era-inspired blob of colors on his face. And when he headlines his own freestyle jazz night, I say fuck it and I leave him alone because that’s actor code for doing a juice cleanse.
I could have had my pick of tall, bespectacled, neurotic American actors able to play both a straight mathematician and a gay dad on Glee. But I am very happy and lucky to be with Jeff. Chances are, on any given day, you won’t find a photo of him where he looks bad. Not an eyebrow hair unshaped. You’re welcome!
While he practices the power of good basics, Goldbloomen isn’t afraid to take some risks like the time I secretly followed him on his honeymoon because of a so-called skinniest of skinny jeans fashion emergency. That was a risk. But he didn’t fire me. Probably because he has had so much unexpected beauty in his life since I became lead bartender/master face painter.
For every one of his Conan appearances, I apply black liquid eyeliner while he puts on a yeah-I-get-shit-done smirk. It’s poetic. And when he winks at me with that smokey cat-eye, I think, whoa, settle down, Jeff, I’m married.