Subject: The Owner of ‘Anti-Beauty’

In response to your earlier communication, we present a few further comments and evidence.

There were two very important things that happened to Tania that day. A phone conversation with her best friend and a note that she typed out soon after. Both have been documented as follows:

The first is the transcript of her phone conversation. This has been obtained with permission from her mobile service provider. Tania claimed later that she had not consented to their recording and sharing her conversations, even though her signature appears on the contract as agreeing to these terms. Since her friend Seena, does not subscribe to the same service provider, they are unable to share her contribution to the conversation:

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Document 1: Transcript of Tania’s phone conversation

“No, I’m not hooking up to the bloody call center. It’s a 45 minute waste of time only to listen to a drone who’s probably 20 and has the brains of a 5-year-old.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. Have you gotten to work as yet?

Ah, you lucky girl! Sorry, I forgot. Don’t let me keep you up at this hour, then.

Already?  It’s only your third day. You still have 11 days left. Why don’t you go to the movies or maybe the salon? They’ll be great on weekdays, no waiting, no loud phone-boors.

Heh, yeah right. Shouting inside my own car does not make a loud phone-boor. Why don’t you catch that new movie then?

Oh, okay. Damn, you make weekday holidays sound bad.

Naw, I wish. I used up all my leave on Kyra. Ungrateful little brat won’t let me have my peace in my own house, even if I take off.

Yes, I do mean that. C’mon, don’t go all judgemental on me. It’s just the two of us talking. It’s bad enough having one foul-tempered teenager at home. But why’d I have to go pick up a job at a ‘young’ company too? I am dying. Dying of youth.

I mean they are killing me, literally. I sound like my mother when I say this and that makes me feel old. But honestly what are kids today thinking??

No, absolutely not. Don’t you remember our fads? Torn denims, those signaled rebellion alright. But what is this with clothes that don’t fit??? This generation wears their jeans so low, their fingers have muscles from the workout of having to constantly pick them off the ground.

It’s not an exaggeration. I think they’re too privileged. They’re begging for misery.

Huh. Yeah, I’m here. I just thought of something.

No, it’s still coming to me. Hey, let me hang up now. I think I have it.

Hmm? Just an idea for the marketing brief I’ve to present tomorrow.

Yeah. I’ll call you tomorrow.

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The second document is a word-processed file that was created by Tania on the same day, estimable at 20 minutes after the phone conversation.

Document 2: Concept Note

Target Audience: 13-22, SEC A, metros

Core Premise: The youth is bored and disengaged from the world. Information overload, over-privileged lifestyles leave them jaded. The beauty myth has been saturated with a cluttered product market, technological advancements in medicine as well as digital touch-up technology.

Also, the influencers in the current social order are proponents of physical perfection. The ones who do not conform to this ideal, lack social currency. This segment is the majority but also under-represented in consumer outlook.

Need Gap: A new aspiration needs to be created for this segment. A guiding philosophy, goals, events and associated products can drive the campaign. We need to oppose beauty as a aspirational standard of appearance.

Key Messages:

1. Anyone who has depth, has problems
2. Perfection is for the last century

Product Range: Anti-beauty product line

• Acne enhancement – to increase pimples & open pores, to convey someone who does not want to be plastic and is proud of it.

• Dirt dust – for smudging on the rear of jeans, to show someone willing to sit anywhere to think and talk on matters of consequence (variant possibilities for eco-friendly consumers).

• Blood paint – for tiny spatters on clothes, to convey being closer to life and away from plastic perfectionism. To be marketed to young women on the lines of menstruation pride and to young men as a return to real manhood.

• Dulling mist – for spraying on face to convey sallow complexion and other conditions associated with working too hard

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These two documents conclusively prove that Tania Rodrigues is the owner and bears full responsibility for the Anti-Beauty ideology. We believe that she should bear all the damages resulting in this case. We also believe that all the earnings of this campaign should be accrued to Ms.Tania Rodrigues.

We await your thoughts at the earliest.

With regards,

Messrs. Lawyer, Lawyer & Lawyer

Right off the bat, both #LoveAtFirstSniff and #IFeelRoyalWhen put me off because of their sheer length. 140 characters is so little, every single one counts. A hashtag that takes up too space, gives people less space to say what they want. On social media, that means they will not care and hence not participate.

My experience with social media professionals tells me that many of them do not even think about this. The common refrain is that ‘it has to carry the brand’s message’. Well, social media is not advertising. Imposing a brand’s agenda onto communication channels works against the brand, by generating resentment instead of participation.

I also do not see why social media needs to follow traditional communication’s norms. What’s wrong with abbreviations? The language of social media, especially short-form content requires it. The concern appears to be, ‘How will people know what it is about?’ Simple, they’ll know what it’s about, if the tweets using that hashtag explain it adequately. This requires more thought being put into the content of the tweets than just 140-character shortened general marketing messages.

Neither hashtag was particularly engaging. That’s not very friendly, and on a medium that is by its very name, social. All interest on such activities is generated by offering goodies or contest wins. Why would you need to bribe people to participate in a conversation? If you’re interesting enough, people will want to participate. The wonder of social media is that it makes numbers possible not by bribing but simply understanding, relating and engaging with real people.

Both these hashtags smack of brand agenda as well as an indifference to what people want. On social media, who cares what a brand wants? Other social media users who are the people who make a topic trend, are not marketing channels for the brand. They have no interest in what a brand wants. If a brand is smart, it will understand what these people want and create a conversation that they’ll be drawn to, and aim for that mental association with a consumer requirement. #LoveAtFirstSniff and #IFeelRoyalWhen are both examples of what I call ‘brand-outward’ rather than ‘audience-inward’ communication.

Due to patchy understanding of the medium as well as a need to quantify business actions, most clients either want or are appeased by social media agencies proposing ‘trending activities’. In reality, after the activity is agreed upon, a small group of people spend their efforts pushing out tweets onto the hashtag in an effort to make the numbers required for the tag to trend. What business value does this serve?

The hashtag appears on the ‘trending topics’. If you’re looking for visibility, that’s not particularly relevant visibility since the average Twitter user does not care about a topic that is not relevant to him/her. Participation by a few social media executives and their immediate circle that is being begged, cajoled and bribed to push out tweets isn’t engagement either. In what way does this benefit the brand except to be able to boast that it spent money making noise that nobody listened to or cared about?

If you are a marketing manager, think twice about wasting your budget on activities that do not add any real value. If you are a social media agency, such activities make you come across as an outfit that’s just conning its clients into forking out marketing money for no real value.  As professionals, the onus is on you to understand what role communication plays in your client’s business and how it can best be used & managed on the social media.

The familiar finger of sensation unfolds inside her skin but she doesn’t pay too much attention. It’s gotten to be habit now, managing these impulses. Besides, it’s going to be a busy day and she wants to conserve all her feeling for the appointments.

The first one arrives a little early. They always do, these first-timers, probably standing outside the door till they can’t stand to wait any longer. Well, she can understand the pleasure of deliberate pain, completely. It’s exquisite, the real art, not the patterns and inks that she proceeds to emboss on people’s bodies.

The second one is a girl and Turena has to insist on seeing an identity proof before she takes her over to the chair. Turena doesn’t want any problems with the authorities. It will disturb the delicate balance of her world and chaos scares Turena. It always surprises her younger customers, who imagine her as a gun-wielding, tank-top-6-pocket-jeans-and-boots-wearing heroine of rebellion. Turena’s plain workshirts, neatly buttoned at the cuffs and light blue jeans always throw them off. Most of them ask her how come she doesn’t have a tattoo herself. She usually shows them the ankle quiver. It’s the one that was created for business purposes only. It usually satisfies them.

The girl has asked for a butterfly on her left breast. A romantic, Turena judges and smiles inwardly. If it had been the right breast, she’d have known the girl was an attention-seeker, a tease even. Women’s clothes button right over left and a tattoo on the right side is a better option for peek-a-boo games. The ease with which the girl takes off her shirt and then her bra, tells Turena something more. She is sure she got chosen, not for her steady hand but for her gender. But the girl isn’t coy about shedding her clothes and when she turns around, Turena’s notions are confirmed. A fading, almost not-there dark patch marks the area a little north-west of her areola. A love-bite. The girl expects more and she’d like camouflage. Perhaps even an invitation for the future.

She sees that Turena has noticed and starts to say something. Turena interrupts her and tells her that a tattoo must not be touched too much or even brushed hard for at least a month and would she like to reconsider the location? To ease her discomfiture, Turena tells her bra-straps can be painful on a fresh, sore tattoo. The girl considers for a whole minute and then shakes her head and lies back. The canvas is ready. Turena’s fingers are already tingling and she mentally thanks the person whose lips left that mark on the girl’s body. It gives added impetus to her work.

By the time she is done with her appointments, the tablecloth is splashed with colour flecks and an occasional red-brown spot that only Turena knows isn’t colour. She picks it up and tosses it into the laundry bag behind the door. Then she sits back in the chair and opens her cuff buttons, folding up her sleeves neatly.

On her left arm, just above the inside of her elbow, a long vine creeps up and turns around to the front, ending three inches under her wrist. Turena admires the leaves and scrutinizes the colour, with a professional eye to check if it needs retouching. Then she runs a finger along the vine, stopping mid-way. The finger feels it, even if the eye doesn’t – the scar and a memory of a time past. She leaves her finger where it is and looks up, thinking.

She can still hear the screaming. The colours are very bright and blurred, sunlight streaming in through a window and diffused all over her eyeball by salt water. The screaming turns to loud, unpleasant wailing. It hurts her throat and her chest too, to make that sound. But it is not enough. Her right hand reaches out and closes over something small, cold and metallic. Dimly, she registers it as the bronze statuette she bought on their honeymoon. He hasn’t noticed, his face is still cold with disgust and indifference, egging her on to make him care. The hand moves quickly and begins to carve her story out. It stings, the cool air burning as it touches torn flesh. It feels so good. So damn good. Then it’s being pulled away from her and in the scuffle that ensues, a little rip of flesh tears itself out of her arm. And there’s red everywhere.

Turena looks away and her eyes fall on her table. Thank God, she whispers. She looks down at her left arm again. It’s beautiful. A story of pain. She created that grapevine herself, to hide back then. But with it, she created art. She dwells on that thought for a full minute. Then she contemplates whether she needs to open a few more buttons to remind herself. Her hand rises slowly to her midriff but she stops there, letting her palm rest over the masterpiece on her stomach that tells about one of the greater tragedies of her life. That’s all she needs. It’s not that bad today. She smoothes the shirt down and just then her stomach rumbles. Turena feels quite proud of herself for being able to manage her pain so well.

Life is pain, this is true. But the world looks to the artist to look that pain in the eye and fall in love with it. There is a smiling glimmer inside her as she gets up. Dark feelings always feel acute, sharp and defined while good feelings are more like a gentle glow. Turena dwells on that thought for a brief second as she turns out the lights.

Then she locks the door to ‘Turena’s Tattoos’ and she goes home.

English: Auschwitz survivor Sam Rosenzweig displays his identification tattoo. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“You’re a con. None of these things work.”

said Shayla shaking the tiny glass bell with the silver heart for a clapper. It was pretty but Shayla wouldn’t admit that. She settled for holding it with the tips of her manicured fingers.

“That’s not true. I don’t lie.”

Deerun replied, unfazed.

“Don’t put on that benevolent holy being act with me. I know you think it’ll sell more of these…things…”

Shayla gestured to the tray of coins and medallions

“…but it irritates me.”

Her leather briefcase bumped the table and the coins clattered to the floor in a rain of metallic sound and plinking glass.

She stared at Deerun, horrified but his expression didn’t change. Taking her briefcase from her, he set it down carefully behind the counter. And they began picking up the pieces.

“It’s not an act but you’re not going to believe that, are you? Why do you have a problem with what I do?”

“Justify selling junk to people in the name of good luck.”

Shayla glared at Deerun as he set the try back upright. He took his time arranging all the objects just right before he turned.

“I don’t need to.”

he said finally.

Shayla wanted to throw something at him. He was so infuriatingly calm!

“But..”

he turned,

“…to you, I will.  Faith gives people the means to deal with their lives. Everybody needs some reference point in their minds. Something that binds them to the idea that world is not a series of random events over which they have no control. And having tangible tokens, pretty trinkets if you will, reminds them.”

“You’re still toying with people’s beliefs.”

“I’m fulfilling a need for it. There is a difference. How am I any different from your clients who sell food products? You have a problem with the term ‘good luck’ but that’s just the name of my shop. None of the objects in the store claim to bring good luck.”

“You don’t exactly discourage people from thinking they do, do you?”

said Shayla sinking into the armchair by the window and safely away breakable objects.

“I let people persist in their stories. It comforts them, entertains them, makes them feel better. How am I different from a movie maker?”

Shayla chewed her lip, trying to think of a comeback. Then Deerun’s long hair and flowing shirt caught her attention.

“So you admit you’re nothing more than a cheap entertainer? That it’s all an act?”

Deerun smile took a few seconds to materialize and Shayla knew she had hit the chink.

“I’m not going to argue with me if you insist on denigrating me. Beliefs are stories. This is no more or no less an act than any author, artist or movie maker. And there is nothing cheap about entertainment.”

“That’s true. Today’s movie tickets plus popcorn and snacks have set me back for all of the weekend.”

Shayla replied as she breezed out to the entrance.

Deerun chuckled. He knew that was her way of apologizing. He checked the jewelery cases, shut the display cabinets and walked out to lock the store. Shayla was already hailing a cab. As they got in, he handed her a little red velvet pouch.

“What..?”

The little glass bell charm lay in the palm of Shayla’s hand.

“You wanted it.”

said Deerun.

“No, but…heh, me? I never..”

“Be quiet. Just keep it. Wear it, carry it around or toss it into your drawer if you want.”

said Deerun and he shut the cab door.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll break it?”

“No. I believe you’ll take care of it.”

Deerun replied.

On their next date, as Shayla opened her front door, a light caught Deerun’s eye briefly. He chose not to comment on the glass bell dangling from her key ring.

English: An old iron wind chime in the shape of a horseshoe with 3 bells. Used as a good luck charm. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Spirit 2X04 had arrived at an unfortunate hour – right in the middle of the rush hour night. He’d materialized right into the peaktime traffic of ghouls making their way to under children’s beds and set off an entire street of dogs baying when he shrieked. That damn Netherworld pass was jammed again and the poor souls ghosting them would have to stay back early to clean up the mess.

Jiggs drifted up and waved to 2X04. He’d recognize only living human gestures at this point of time and Jiggs had had to deal with enough of disoriented new-dead to learn a bit of the local lingo. He was gesturing for him to come along. There were his usual rounds so he decided to drop the kid at the Netherworld pass, instead of letting him make a nuisance of himself to the Feardom watch staff.

Ideally the orientation officers would take charge the minute new-dead crossed over and assign them to the appropriate journeys. This one may not even be slated for Feardom but had materialized through the cracks. Jiggs knew he wouldn’t be rerouted, not immediately. There was no room for one more bureaucratic nightmare. There were too many of them on this planet already and they were notoriously territorial.

They drifted along and Jiggs began his usual tour-operater speech that he gave to the new-dead that seemed to fall into his lap every couple of months or so.

“That’s the Factory.”

he said, gesturing to his right. Jiggs could see the kid’s thoughts running in the direction of tall buildings spewing black smoke.

“No, not that kind of Factory. Well, the same kind. It’s the only Factory in Feardom. They make raw fear.”

“Raw fear??”

Jiggs thanked Ixtra spirit that new dead didn’t have working bladders or 2X04 would have voided his. Embarassment would dilute fear and hence his fear-creating potential. If the kid was to fit into Feardom, he’d have to learn to curb those.

“Yes. Mostly they use it to make Fog-of-fear that the government sprays on the living to keep them indoors, asleep and manageable during heavy traffic. Look, there’s a fear dispenser going by after his nightly rounds. Every street gets one whiff, some high population ones get an entire canister.”

The fear dispenser whizzed by, obviously in a hurry to finish up late. Then he abruptly darted back and sprayed a multi-coloured wisp into the air and zoomed off.

“Religious fear”

said Jiggs, a disapproving clink in his voice. And sure enough, there was a worship place on the horizon. The fear dispensing had eased up considerably around these places in the past century. This particular one must be a new sect and have requested a special, fresh Fear Fog every night.

“Being dead is very different from what I thought.”

said 2X04.

“Don’t worry. Feardom is a jolly old place once you get used to it.”

“It sounds horrible. Fearsome.”

“It’s supposed to. Fear runs our economy, you know. We sleep in comfortable coffins and cupboards and bed bottoms during the day because of the bounty it brings us.”

That’s wasn’t quite true, Jiggs knew but he was the face of Feardom to these newbies after all. No point indulging their foolish notions. Feardom wasn’t a rich state but it got by fine and there were jobs to be had for the hardworking ghoul, for the spirited spirit and even for the occasional unsubstantial like him, struck with wanderlust.

They passed the graveyard and unsurprisingly 2X04 slowed down to watch. The new-dead were so fascinated with their deaths. Jiggs growled again and the spirit jumped. In a kindler tone than his growl, Jiggs explained,

“That’s just the nightly bone market. If you ever take up special spook assignments, you can come rent a couple of bones or even a whole skeleton here. Be careful with your spirit though, these hawkers are thieves.”

Jiggs pulled the kid behind a parked car and they watched. Two ghouls seemed deep in conversation and after a lot of plopping and gesturing, one handed over a bone to another.

“It’s completely clean. Maggot-certified. Look, there isn’t even a trace of blood.”

Jiggs harrumped, which to the kid would have sounded like a snort.

“Maggot-certified, my painted pineapple. That one’s been stolen from a dog’s dinner and stuck into the ground.”

The buying ghoul didn’t seem to know or care though and it departed with the bone.

They turned and rose into the air when the kid nearly flew right through something.

“Officer Koriko!”

Jiggs exclaimed, spotting his old friend.

“Jiggs, thank grishooms it’s you!”

“What’s up, Koriko? You here to bust that fake bone hawker?”

Koriko frowned across its round yellow face and looked towards the kid.

“No, not tonight. Listen, I’ll take over from here. I need to take this one back.”

“Why, what’s he done? He’s barely been dead 3 hours now.”

“Three hours?!! Oh my dear dashing demons! Jigaboo, he’s not new-dead. He’s near-death.”

Jiggs understood Koriko’s unease. The near-death experiences were expensive mistakes that had to be covered up with elaborate stories, not to mention the gargantuan paperwork. The kid had seen too much. What would they do with him now? They couldn’t send him back without a very expensive memory-wipe. And that might erase his brain and keep him in vegetable state for years. It would be a bureaucratic nightmare of monstrous proportions.

He looked at Koriko’s worried face and the kid’s bewildered one. Grunting to himself, he turned.

“Relax, Koriko. He ran right into a Fog of Fear trail. He’s been neutralized already. Just take him back and tell them he’s only been around a couple of minutes. That’s as much as he’ll remember anyway.”

Koriko nodded and his face relaxed into its usual jovial grimace. Taking the near-dead spirit by its hind wisp, he glided away. Jiggs growled at how easy it was. Fear arose from the unknown, after all. Why not use it occasionally to make life in Feardom a little easier?

It’s a ghost! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)