Shopping – Anna’s Out of Town News

Buying Fake in China

I lost a make-up brush while moving. It was a generic cheap one I used with my highlighter. I got it as a gift in a set many years ago, and it was most likely made in China. Since I was in China, I thought it would be easy to find a replacement.

I don’t exactly put much shop in shopping for make-up brushes. In Russia, I would have gone to some make-up stores and got one; they are ubiquitous, really. In the US, I would have probably ordered one online, since I don’t have time to go shopping, and New Haven doesn’t have that many stores anyway. Either way, I would have gotten a brush that was made in China an forgotten about it until I lost it and had to buy a new one.

But it’s not that simple in China.

Almost every country has a signature shopping experience for its visitors. Tourists emerge from Thailand wrapped in sarongs and wearing Thai pants; it’s vodka and nesting dolls in Russia; lederhosen and teddy bears in Germany. In China, it’s fake stuff.

I grew up being told that pirated music and software and counterfeit goods are bad. So I stay away from fake Louis Vuitton and get my music off iTunes. That’s reasonably easy to do living in the states where pursuing a fake LV bag actually requires some effort (I came across an actual guide of how to go about getting one in NYC (http://www.nytix.com/NewYorkCity/articles/handbags.html) and my set-up iTunes account allows me to buy music with one click and my job lets me buy it without worrying about the cost.

But the problem with shopping in China is that it’s often fake or nothing.

So back to my make-up brush story. I went to a Sephora looking for one, but they did not have the kind I wanted (wrong size and shape; yes, I am picky about that). Other chains like Watsons didn’t have one either. At that point, it got ridiculous to be spending so much time to be looking for one small make-up tool, so I decided to go to some local store. I could see locals wearing brush, so proper brushes must exist in China!

At a large department store, there was an entire floor dedicated to make-up and beauty-related goods. And then I spotted what I wanted. It was perfect –small, light, convenient, and sized just right. But it had huge MAC logo on it — clearly and obviously fake. MAC doesn’t make the same kind of brush; MAC’s brushes are priced at 30+USD; that one was 2.5USD. If it had ‘Chanel’ or even ‘Coca-Cola’ on it, I would have wanted it anyway.

And so I bought it. And I somehow feel guilty about it. All those year of seeing ads against counterfeit goods and reading about how buying counterfeit destroys big companies have instilled guilt in me (good news for those PR agencies designing them, I guess). I like MAC, and have no intention of hurting their business: they don’t test on animals and even run a program that donates money to AIDS-related causes. I even volunteered for them several years ago. But I did not buy it for the logo — I would have wanted it anyway. See, when you buy a fake Coach bag, you usually do it for that design, right? In this case, I did not care about the logo; an it’s not like I would have bought a real one from MAC, because I don’t like their brushes. So they did not lose profit.

There are legal and economical implications of buying fake, but I only want to talk about the ethical ones this time.

Now, can you say it was unethical of me to buy that brush?

On the one hand, I did not have many alternatives. I seriously could not fin anything else anywhere. I could have bought one from eBay and had it shipped here, which would have wasted money and damaged the environment; I could have asked a friend to bring it over from the US, which is ridiculous, really.

On the other hand, I could have avoided buying one altogether and lived without using that particular make-up product (let’s face it, it’s not essential to my well-being). But I guess I am pretty spoiled as a consumer, because I am more or less used to instant gratification — you want the brush, you take out your debit card and buy it, whether on- or offline. And I could get anything else anywhere. And this consumer mentality is cultivated by the same multinational companies that complain about losing profit to fake goods. In MAC’s case, it’s Estee Lauder, who also owns the company that made the highlighter I wanted the brush for. I would have not bought the actual brush from MAC, since none is available, so they did not lose any profit. Since I will be using the brush to put on the make-up and will run out by the time I have to go back, I will buy more of the product, which will end up bringing Estee Lauder more money. So we all win — Estee Lauder will get better profit, I will have positive consumer experience, and some Chinese factory workers will not lose their jobs (provided they work at a regular factory and not a sweatshop).

And I assuage my guilt by readily admitting it’s fake when asked — this makes me feel like I did not by it because of the three letters on its handle.

The story of my make-up brush is not that exciting, really. But that one little brush represent an entire industry of fake goods — which is estimated to take up over 7% of all world trade! All these fake brushes so widely represented on eBay that there are even guides on how to spot them (

http://reviews.ebay.com/MAC-BRUSHES-Guide-to-Fake-vs-Authentic-MAC-brushes_W0QQugidZ10000000002525878

(http://proquest.umi.com/pqdlink?Ver=1&Exp=08-24-2014&FMT=7&DID=1095869571&RQT=309&cfc=1)

I will write about legal and economic issues accompanying counterfeit goods later, since I am still researching it. But you know something is wrong with a country where the only mundane household item of a decent quality you can find is a fake.

I lost a make-up brush while moving. It was a generic cheap one I used with my highlighter: I got it as a gift in a set many years ago, and it was most likely made in China. Since I was in China, I thought it would be easy to find a replacement.

I don’t exactly put much effort in shopping for make-up brushes. In Russia, I would have gone to some make-up stores and got one; they are ubiquitous, really. In the US, I would have probably ordered one online, since I don’t have time to go shopping, and New Haven doesn’t have that many stores anyway. Either way, I would have gotten a brush that was made in China and forgotten about it until I lost it and had to buy a new one.

But it’s not that simple in China.

I grew up being told that pirated music and software and counterfeit goods are bad. So I stay away from fake Louis Vuitton and get my music off iTunes. That’s reasonably easy to do living in the states where pursuing a fake LV bag actually requires some effort (I came across an actual guide on how to go about getting one in NYC!) and my iTunes account allows me to buy music with one click and the fact I have a job lets me buy it without worrying about the small cost.

But the problem with shopping in China is that it’s often fake or nothing.

And so I bought it. But I feel guilty about it. All those year of seeing ads against counterfeit goods and reading about how buying counterfeit destroys big companies have instilled guilt in me (good news for those PR agencies designing them, I guess). I like MAC, and have no intention of hurting their business: they don’t test on animals and even run a program that donates money to AIDS-related causes. I even volunteered for them several years ago. But I did not buy it for the logo — I would have wanted it anyway. See, when you buy a fake Coach bag, you usually do it for that design, right? In this case, I did not care about the logo; an it’s not like I would have bought a real one from MAC, because I don’t like their brushes. So they did not lose any profits.

There are legal and economic implications of buying fake, but I only want to talk about the ethical ones this time.

Now, can you say it was unethical of me to buy that brush?

On the one hand, I did not have many alternatives. I seriously could not find anything else anywhere. I could have bought one from eBay and had it shipped here, which would have wasted money and damaged the environment; I could have asked a friend to bring it over from the US, which is ridiculous, really.

On the other hand, I could have avoided buying one altogether and lived without using that particular make-up product (let’s face it, it’s not essential to my well-being). But I guess I am pretty spoiled as a consumer, because I am more or less used to instant gratification — you want the brush, you take out your debit card and buy it, whether on- or offline. This consumer mentality is cultivated by the same multinational companies that complain about losing profit to fake goods; in MAC’s case, it’s Estee Lauder, who also owns the company that made the highlighter I wanted the brush for. I would have not bought the actual brush from MAC, since none is available, so they did not lose any profit. Since I will be using the brush to put on the make-up and will run out by the time I have to go back, I will buy more of the product, which will end up bringing Estee Lauder more money. So we all win — Estee Lauder will get better profit, I will have positive consumer experience, and some Chinese factory workers will not lose their jobs (provided they work at a regular factory and not a sweatshop).

And I assuage my guilt by readily admitting it’s fake when asked — this makes me feel like I did not by it because of the three letters on its handle.

The story of my make-up brush is not that exciting, really. But that one little brush represent an entire industry of fake goods — which is estimated to take up over 7% of all world trade! All these fake brushes are now so widely represented on eBay that there are even guides on how to spot them.

The Lipstick Effect: Russia, the Beauty Industry, and the Financial Crisis

In the USSR, industrial products were prioritized over consumer goods. While industry produced many tanks and guns and much heavy machinery, women often struggled to find decent make-up or clothing. Eighteen years after the communist behemoth collapsed, guerrillas worldwide employ leftover AK-47’s, post-Soviet states sell leftover Soviet tanks to African nations, and the levels of make-up consumption are higher than in many historically capitalist countries. Make-up is readily available now, and many middle-aged women rarely reminisce about the times when they literally used to spend one quarter of their salaries on black-market French mascara.

It is now the time of the year when it becomes especially obvious how far Russia has come in terms of consumerism. Around New Year’s, Russia’s consumerist equivalent of Christmas, stores are abuzz with customers looking for gifts for their near and dear. With online shopping still undeveloped, the number of customers in the stores is a good indicator of the current economic situation. The unemployment rate has skyrocketed, petrodollar flow has decreased, stocks are down, grocery prices went up, and the ruble is being slowly devalued. Yet, the atmosphere is not quite as morbid as I expected. Most stores have not resorted to the unprecedented sales of the US, although many of them have experienced a reduced flow of customers. While the ones selling furniture, expensive clothing, and electronics struggle to stay afloat, the ones offering make-up and sometimes jewelry are — surprisingly — experiencing a wave of consumerism.

In the somewhat pretentious chain make-up store to which I went in hopes of checking off some items of my gift lists, the dreaded krizis was seemingly ignored. The intrepid crowds were joyfully choosing between Chanel, Dior, and Givenchy. But the displays with more modestly priced brands were even more crowded. The customers were scouting the store for the yellow sales labels, but once they identified them, they often bought multiples of the good. At the register, many were flashing the “gold” discount card, which one gets after spending an equivalent of $340 at the store (may I remind you that the average monthly salary in Russia in 2008 is reported to be around $700 (in the pre-crisis exchange rate)?.

That sight reminded me of the article I recently read that discussed the “lipstick effect” apparent in Russia right now (here’s a link for the Russian speakers). In short, the “lipstick effect” is an increase in the demand for perfume and make-up during the times of financial instability. Since people can’t afford much, they resort to buying fun affordable goods such as a new shiny, candy-flavored lipgloss. This theory does appear to be very true right now. Some friends of mine who would have bought more expensive gifts before opted to get perfumes for their male friends or make-up for their females friends instead. Men’s perfumes have been flying off the shelves, a buyer acquaintance of mine confessed. They are replacing the pricier cashmere sweaters, iPods, or cell phones, traditional New Year’s gifts for husbands, boyfriends, fathers, and sons.

Further research suggests the lipstick effect is felt worldwide: from the US to India to New Zealand, “small luxuries” are substituting “extravagant purchases.” Consumerism is an inherent part of the 21st century, and it is quite understandable that people would go for cheaper goods on which to spend their disposable income when the times are tough. As the name suggests, these effect is primarily facilitated by women. And could you blame them for that? In the times of unemployment and the gloomy Russian winter, inexpensive bright lipstick may be the only available kind of retail therapy.

Although I couldn’t find any quantitative research on the lipstick effect in Russia, I would expect it to be even stronger than in other developed countries. First, there is an entire social strata — young, single, well-educated, middle-class women — who gladly spend their money at the make-up counter. Many of them make enough money to have some disposable income left after paying their bills. But it is not enough to buy an apartment or to take out a mortgage: the salaries are still low, and property prices some of the highest in the world (although the property bubble has been bursting recently). There is not much of an investment culture: years of communism and the volatile post-communist market did not exactly help develop one. Saving for retirement is still a foreign concept to many. So these women resort to renting and spending the rest of the money on make-up, hair cuts, pedicures, and salon anticellulite services.

Then, of course, there is the mentality: the “if you’ve got it, flaunt it” attitude is still de rigueur for many. I know plenty of women who would rather buy a mink coat and be on the potatoes-only diet for the next year or two than buy a regular coat and good food . This ostentatious approach causes producers of luxury good all over to swear by the Russian consumers. Those not rich enough to afford haute couture go for the hot finds of the numerous glossy magazines instead: the new mascara brush, the new season nail polish, the new miraculous anti-wrinkle skin cream. Considering the ridiculously low men to women ratio and a common belief that a woman has to a) get married to be successful; b) wear a lot of make up and be always perfectly groomed to catch a man — you get a perfect beauty industry consumer. There are more beauty salons in place in an average Russian provincial town than I have ever seen anywhere. Just a few months ago, everything was overpriced, but women were happy to pay. I remember running out of lipgloss and finding it to be three times as much in Moscow as I paid in NYC. A friend of a friend reportedly used to make a living by taking Russian upper middle-class women to Berlin, where they would stay at nice hotels, eat at fancy restaurants, and shop excessively. With plane tickets and visa costs, they still spent way less than they would have if they bought the same things in Russia.

Now that incomes are down, purse strings are tightened. The sun has set on expensive salon treatments. The beauty parlors, especially the more expensive ones, attract fewer customers, but women are not about to stop getting highlights. A friendly shop assistant reported a drastic increase in the demand for their home hair-dye kits. Likewise, women are not about to stop exfoliating, moisturizing, and de-wrinkling. Some internet forums featured women admitting abandoning the more expensive foreign skin care lines and resorting to the reasonably-priced Russian and Belorussian ones instead (which is generally deemed “ok to do, if you don’t admit it publicly and still have a compact and lipstick by a fancy brand to use in public”).

I happen to like a certain hair conditioner that is made in Belarus. Every time I go to Russia, I attempt to buy several bottles — it does wonders for my hair, it’s very cheap, and it’s patriotic (Russia and Belarus are supposedly one state, no?). It is very popular, but I usually have no problems locating it. This time around, it was nowhere to be found. Previous L’Oreal and Schwarzkopf customers were now making an extra effort to find something cheaper and at least of the same quality, and that conditioner happened to be their best bet. Remember Chanel’s Black Satin hysteria two years back? This is actually worse: instead of the civilized waiting lists at Bloomingdale’s, women are said to bribe shop assistants to keep these conditioners for them when they next become available.

If I had several million dollars to spare, I would be very happy to invest in buying up a skin care factory — preferably in Belarus, for the workforce is cheaper there — and to hire chemists, package designers and advertising experts, pay for a celebratory article in some glossy magazine, and promote my products as de luxe — there will be a high earning potential (and workplaces, too). Do you want to know why I think that? Here is a story:

A sales assistant at that make-up store helped me pick a few gifts, and I commented on the limited selection of the Chanel nail polishes, given that the new line named after Russia just came out. Oh, she was very worried about it, she said. In fact, she wanted it for herself so badly that she had booked train tickets to Moscow to go to the headliner Chanel store, where said nail polished are still available. The dark red version was her favorite, and she was looking forward to finally being able to wear it.

I later found out that a sales assistant in that shop makes around $400 a month. The cheapest return trip to Moscow would cost around $60; that nail polish retails for $38 in the US, and it probably costs more in Russia. It looks like Russian women are still ready to drop a quarter of their salary on the nail polish. Forget Gazprom. With the oil prices plummeting, make-up may be the way to go.

Being Fashionable in Eastern Europe and Beyond

Call me crazy, conservative, and non-Slavic, but I can’t wear a mini skirt and glittery, strappy sandals to work. Ironically, I spend enough time shopping, matching clothes, and collecting high-heeled shoes for my friends to make fun of me. Most of the time, I tend to be on the overdressed side. But not by Kievan standards. For the past few weeks, I have been feeling quite underdressed.

“So, where do all the prostitutes work?”

Oh no, I thought. I am hallucinating from the hot Kiev weather and too many meetings with depressed and depressing Ukrainian political scientists.

A Ukrainian friend had another friend visiting from a European country where women in general, save for the Sex and the City fans, don’t fetishize high heels and mini skirts. He is a really nice but somewhat naïve guy who hadn’t traveled outside Europe before. He is really enjoying his stay in Kiev. He doesn’t mind hot weather, lack of air conditioning, or disastrous public transportation. He was warned about the mysterious Russian (in this case Ukrainian) soul and is very open minded. But taking him to a red lights district (if there is one in Kiev, of which I am not sure) is too extreme. What was my friend thinking?

“Where have you seen them?”

“On the metro every morning there are tons of them. Where are they going so early?”

And then it hit me. He seriously thought all the made-up ladies in revealing clothing he saw on the metro at 9am were in the business of selling their bodies. But they were just on the commute to work — which most likely didn’t involve selling their bodies.

The conversation above took place several days ago. Today, another friend told me a very similar story about a Dutch guy who asked the same question. This is just sad. The last few days have been really hot, so light, transparent and short clothing are a necessity. Most men on the streets, Ukrainian and foreign alike, don’t seem to mind. They probably don’t mind women wearing clothes like that at work.

Continue reading “Being Fashionable in Eastern Europe and Beyond”

Shopping in Kiev: Ukrainian Wives and iPhones

As I was walking down Kreschatik, Kiev’s main street, I saw a billboard in English that targets foreign men.

Conveniently for visiting foreign men who fell prey to Ukrainian women’s charms, you can now get a Ukrainian wife while doing sightseeing. The company’s office is right there, on Kreschatik, so you can quickly get a brand-new wife, a “fast visa,” and then keep exploring Kiev. For those who want to accessorize their newly acquired wives, iPhones are sold two or three buildings down from the billboard. By the way, iPhones are not officially sold in Ukraine, but the store doesn’t seem to care, openly selling them on Kreschatik for three times the US price.

I wonder how much Ukrainian women are worth these days. I was really tempted to call Joe, the “American manager” of the Ukrainian wives, but I can’t pull off sounding like a man. My boyfriend refused to partake in this. Anyone wants to give me a hand?

Russian Female Enterpreneurs — and Another Blog For Which I Will Be Writing

Happy to announce I will from now on be writing for a very nice blog about Russian: SiberianLight. Those of you russophiles out there, check it out. My article is about a very unusual way women in Russian start their own businesses and can be found here.

How Russian women are running their own online businesses that make fashion affordable – and make a profit.

How Legos Didn’t Change My Life

Can you guess what the worst thing about growing up in the Post-Soviet Russia was?

No, not the lack of democracy and freedom of speech. Not the political instability. Not even the shattered economy. It was the lack of Legos.

Legos were one of the many products that poured into Russia after the USSR collapsed. Despite the harsh economic conditions, there was much demand: people were starved for exotic foreign things, so most international companies were thriving. However, there were only a few Lego stores in all of Russia– (at least that I was aware of) in Moscow and St. Petersburg, the largest one in the prohibitively expensive mall right across the Red Square.

Every holiday, I begged my parents for a new Lego set. My ploy to trick them to buy me one for my half-birthday didn’t work out, but for most other big events there was a new set waiting in my room. The only problem was that the stores didn’t carry enough sets. They usually offered only smaller sets since they were the ones in demand.
I pined for the Mechanic and Mindstorms sets. I spent hours drooling over the catalogues — to no avail for there was no opportunity to buy them (that was before the glorious era of internet shopping). I resorted to collecting teddy bears instead.

When I first started traveling, I ran into a Lego store in Germany, but managed to talk myself into not walking in. I figured that I would not be able to leave unless I bought as many Legos as possible. So I went and bought another teddy bear (there were many everywhere of them since it’s Berlin’s tourist specialty). During the trip, I accumulated a fairly large (and dusty) collection of plush animals and kept expanding it later on.

A couple of days ago, I walked into a store in Boston and was greeted by hundreds of shiny boxes…

Not that many things have changed since I used to fall asleep while playing with my beloved Lego sets . Lego Technic now has even more exciting machinery, Lego Mindstorms is now even more complicated (personally, I am not sure if I could deal with it) and there are lots of other Lego sets that drew my attention. I especially liked the Indiana Jones one since a new Indiana Jones was filmed at my college this summer.

I was about to buy a set, but couldn’t make up my mind. I was actually very tempted to purchase a Mindstorms set, but they are on a pricier side. I doubt it is a good investment since I am not sure I wouldn’t be able to assemble it properly.

And then my boyfriend announced he had “bucketfuls of Legos” at his house.

Half an hour later, I was diligently working on an intricate color scheme for a Lego house: I began with a red kitchen, which turned out nicely (red floor, red walls, red stove – my dream kitchen). Then I proceeded to a treasure room (every Lego house should have one, right?). I feel that I was more dexterous ten years ago, but who cares: it is all about the process and the joy of finding that perfect piece that makes an excellent skylight.

That house was later demolished by the tail of said boyfriend’s dog. I am glad it was, actually, for I would not have had the heart to do it myself — and I don’t have anywhere to keep it. Still, just being able to play with the little plastic pieces made me ecstatic.

No more teddy bears for me.

One iPod Convert’s Quest to Buy a Zune

Several years ago, I was given an iPod (a now obsolete 30 GB Classic) as a gift. I can’t say I was a big fan. iTunes is not exactly pleasant software to use, and my attempts to load some podcasts or videos onto it were futile. Still, I was happy just listening to the music on airplanes, hiking and on my way to class. And then it disappeared from a desk in my dorm room (destined for ebay or wherever it is ‘missing’ ipods go).

I missed it, but not badly enough to go buy one right away. I assumed I would just buy one at some point, but I was waiting for Apple to come up with an iPod in red – my favorite color. I briefly toyed with the idea of painting the one I used to have with nail polish/acrylic paint or putting a cover on it, but none of these solutions would make it perma-red, so I decided to accept it the way it was.

And then my boyfriend got a Zune. He had it customized (who would have thought some people out there want a picture of two robots fighting laser etched onto the back of their MP3 player?) and obsessively tracked it as it went from the factory in China to Alaska and then to his home. This trip through half of the world lasted for three business days.

I was very skeptical at first. It is only available in one color – plain, boring black. Yes, it has a radio – and WiFi – but who cares, given that the sleek look of an iPod is so much more familiar. The price — $249 — and the memory capacity — 80GB — are the same as the 80GB iPod I had been considering. A Zune is slightly larger, but it would still fit in my purse. It also has a larger screen, but I only used the one my iPod had to click my way through my playlist. As I said, I was one of the many iPod owners who never mastered the seemingly easy process of using it for anything but listening to the music.

As I watched my boyfriend easily navigate the Zune software and the website, I started believing that I could one day muster up the courage to watch some news podcasts on that 3.2 inch screen (3.2 in is still an abstract number to me, but 8.13 cm is impressive). And wirelessly syncing it with my laptop? Ah so very alluring.

Still, I was vacillating. If there were a red Zune out there, I would have gotten one right away, but making a step from the familiar clumsiness of an iPod to the unknown Zune world was painful.

Watching the National Geographic podcasts on my boyfriend’s Zune while on the subway was the last straw. The feature on polyandry in the Himalayas left me persuaded: I want it for myself (a Zune, not two extra boyfriends).

I was in Boston, so I thought there had to be some Zunes in the metro area. I went to a Best Buy – and there were none sold. An entire range of iPods, from a Shuffle to an iPod touch, was, however, represented. But the only Zunes available were the 30GB ones and overpriced 4/8 GB flash models.

One abortive trip to Staples and many calls to various stores later (“Are you sure you don’t want a 30GB one? They even have it in white”), I gave up. Maybe there were some places where one could buy an 80 GB Zune in Boston, but spending an entire day hunting them down is not exactly my cup of tea. Opting for the clunky older versions didn’t seem like that good an idea, either. By that time, I was in full blown retail therapy mood and was not willing to give up.

I could have bought it off the Zune website, but I didn’t really want it customized. Spending an extra $10 or $15 does not seem reasonable since I plan putting red vinyl covers on my Zune (I had researched them well before I decided to buy one). So I opted for the last resort: Amazon.

The order went through Monday evening; it is supposed to be here on Wednesday. For now, I am molesting my boyfriend’s Zune and loving it. While I am doubtful about the utility of the ‘Social’ function (there are not that many Zune owners on campus), I am very happy about the radio: I just found out that it provides the wavebands for US, Europe, and Asia. I just have to make sure that I develop a high level of tolerance for Canto pop, a staple on the Hong Kong radio.

It took my boyfriend’s endless efforts to convince me to get a Zune, and once he had persuaded me and we ventured out to buy one, it was nowhere to be found. What good is all the marketing if the product is unavailable?

For now, I’m sitting here molesting boyfriend’s Zune, waiting for the UPS truck…

Grooming and Globalization

I bought a bottle of a life-changing leave-in hair conditioner in Cambodia.

I woke up in Phnom Penh one day with very misbehaving hair from dry, hot air and lots of dancing the night before. So I went to a supermarket across the street and bought the first bottle with the word “conditioner” interspersed with the Khmer letters on which I set my eyes. It was produced in Thailand by Pantene. It worked wonders for my hair and I took it with me upon returning to Hong Kong. When I realized I was running out, an excursion to the hair-product aisle at a local supermarket proved futile. Pantene offered a variety of hair conditioners to its Hong Kong customers. Some of them of the leave-in kind, but none of them had the desired texture and efficiency. I took a picture of the bottle and sent it to my friends in Thailand. They said nothing similar could be found in Bangkok or anywhere else in Thailand for that matter. My American friends said they could not help, either. Google did not yield a response to my desperate request. I gave up.

Went I went to Russia for the summer break, I saw a familiar-looking bottle in a hair salon. With a slightly modified shape and with Russian instead of Khmer, it was that very same hair conditioner! I bought three bottles on the spot and took two of them with me when packing to go to the US to school. However, what I did forget to pack was my favorite razor. I learned from an online search that the brand (Schick) did not offer the exact same kind, so I settled for a four-bladed “Quattro.”

I was pretty happy with it until I went to Russia for the winter break. I needed a new cartridge and encountered raised eyebrows aplenty upon inquiring for it at the stores. “Four razors? In a *female* razor?” Left with no choice, I bought an environmentally-unfriendly disposable kind.

I am going back to Hong Kong this summer for a summer job/internship. I haven’t checked yet, but I am very sure the exact kind of a razor is not sold there. The kind I have in Russia is not sold there, either.

I have to have three different razor models – made by the same brand – in three different countries if I want to maintain basic hygiene. Apparently, the globalized world has a lot of unwanted body hair!