I was fourteen when I first understood the specific type of mortification that only a department store beauty counter can deliver. My mum had dragged me to House of Fraser in Birmingham – this was back when House of Fraser still existed and Birmingham wasn’t trying quite so hard to be cool – and I’d made the rookie mistake of testing approximately seven different perfumes on the same wrist. The sales assistant, who had that particular brand of flawless makeup that only comes from years of practice and possibly selling your soul, looked at me like I’d just wiped my nose on the Chanel display. “You can’t smell anything properly now, love,” she said, managing to make “love” sound like an insult. I spent the rest of the shopping trip smelling like a teenager who’d fallen into a vat of competing fragrances, which, to be fair, wasn’t far off.
Twenty-something years later, and I’m still slightly intimidated by beauty counters. But also completely addicted to them. There’s something about the combination of aspiration, possibility, and mild terror that keeps me coming back. Maybe it’s the lighting that makes you simultaneously look amazing and terrible. Maybe it’s the way you can convince yourself that this particular serum will definitely be the one that transforms your life. Or maybe it’s just that beauty halls are one of the last retail spaces where you can still get properly looked after, even if that attention comes with a healthy dose of judgment about your current skincare routine.
I spent last Saturday morning in three different beauty halls across central London, ostensibly researching this piece but actually just indulging in what I’ve come to think of as “therapeutic browsing.” You know that feeling when you’re stressed about work or life and you just want to be surrounded by pretty things and people who know how to make other people look better? That’s beauty hall therapy, and it’s cheaper than actual therapy, though admittedly you often leave with less money and more products you don’t technically need.
What I love about British beauty halls specifically is how they manage to be both utterly democratic and completely aspirational at the same time. You can rock up in your rattiest jeans with a tenner in your pocket and still get treated like you might drop serious cash. Well, mostly. There’s definitely a skill to reading the room – some counters are clearly focused on the big spenders, while others genuinely seem happy to help you find the perfect drugstore dupe for that expensive thing you saw in Vogue.
Each department store has developed its own distinct beauty hall personality over the years, and I’ve become slightly obsessed with mapping out where to go for what. It’s taken me years of trial and error, awkward encounters, and more money than I care to calculate, but I think I’ve finally cracked the code.
Selfridges is the overachiever of beauty halls – everything’s louder, brighter, more. The staff are intimidatingly beautiful and seem to know about trends approximately six months before they hit the rest of us. Last time I was there, this impossibly glowing woman at the Glossier counter tried to convince me I needed their new serum by basically listing everything wrong with my skin in the most charming way possible. I bought it, obviously. That’s the Selfridges effect – they make you want to be the type of person who deserves these products, even when you’re currently wearing yesterday’s mascara and a jumper with a mysterious stain.
My Selfridges strategy is always to head straight for the exclusives. Their buyers are genuinely brilliant at securing products you can’t get elsewhere, and if you’re going to be intimidated into spending money, you might as well get something unique out of it. The Fenty Beauty counter is consistently excellent – the staff actually seem to enjoy their jobs, which isn’t always a given in beauty retail. I’m slightly obsessed with their Gloss Bomb, which manages to make me look like someone who drinks enough water and gets regular facials, neither of which is true.
Charlotte Tilbury is always mobbed at Selfridges, mostly with people trying to figure out which version of her famous Pillow Talk lipstick they need. Honestly? They’re all pretty similar, but the ritual of swatching seventeen nearly identical nude-pink shades and pretending you can tell the difference is part of the experience. I always end up buying something from her counter because the packaging makes me feel sophisticated, even though I know I’m basically paying extra for the gold compact.
Liberty feels like shopping in someone’s very wealthy grandmother’s dressing room, if your grandmother had impeccable taste and possibly supernatural skincare knowledge. The beauty hall is all dark wood and carefully curated brands that you haven’t heard of but probably should have. The staff have this particular type of British poshness that’s simultaneously intimidating and comforting – they’ll judge your current routine, but in a helpful way.
I always head to Le Labo when I’m at Liberty, partly because they mix your fragrance right there like some sort of expensive chemistry experiment, but mostly because the custom labels make me feel special every time I use the product. Their Santal 33 is everywhere now, but I don’t care – it still makes me smell like the type of person who has her life together. The Diptyque candles are also worth the investment if you want your flat to smell like you’re more sophisticated than you actually are.
Harvey Nichols has serious fashion person energy – the beauty hall equivalent of that friend who always looks effortlessly put-together and makes you slightly aware of your own shortcomings. The edit is razor-sharp, focusing on brands that actually work rather than just what’s trendy. The staff can be intimidating, but they know their stuff, and they’re less likely to try to sell you something just because it’s expensive.
Their Sunday Riley section is dangerous for me – I’m convinced their Good Genes serum is the reason my skin occasionally looks like I take proper care of it, even though my routine is basically “whatever’s nearest to the sink.” The price makes me feel slightly sick every time I repurchase it, but then I use it for three months and convince myself I look five years younger, so the cycle continues.
Harrods beauty hall is extra in the best possible way. The marble, the lighting, the sheer scale – it’s designed to make you feel like you should probably be spending more on beauty products than you currently do on groceries. Which, let’s be honest, I probably am anyway. The staff are so perfectly groomed they look like they’ve been Photoshopped in real life.
What Harrods does brilliantly is fragrance – their selection of niche perfumes is unmatched. I discovered Frederic Malle there, these incredible complex scents that smell like actual perfumery rather than whatever focus groups decided teenagers wanted to smell like. They’re expensive enough that I have to save up, but distinctive enough that people actually ask what I’m wearing, which never happens with high street fragrances.
But honestly? For pure comfort and reliability, I keep coming back to John Lewis. Their beauty hall doesn’t try to intimidate you – the lighting’s more forgiving, the staff range from helpful to pleasantly disinterested, and there’s something deeply soothing about the whole experience. It’s like the retail equivalent of a really good cup of tea and a biscuit.
Their own-brand skincare is genuinely excellent and reasonably priced, which feels revolutionary in a world where face cream regularly costs more than a decent bottle of wine. The Origins counter staff give the best practical advice – they’re not trying to sell you a twelve-step routine, just products that’ll actually solve whatever problem you’ve brought to them. I’ve been using their Drink Up Intensive mask for years, and it’s saved my skin through countless British winters and long-haul flights.
The thing about beauty halls is they’ve survived the online shopping revolution because they offer something the internet can’t replicate – the experience of trying things properly. You can’t test how a perfume develops on your skin through a screen, or figure out if that foundation actually matches your neck, or get someone who knows about acids to explain why your skin’s been doing that weird thing lately.
They’re also one of the last retail spaces where proper service still exists. A good beauty counter person is part consultant, part therapist, part magician. They’ll listen to your complaints about your skin, create solutions that make you feel better about yourself, and yes, probably convince you to spend more than you planned, but you’ll leave feeling like they genuinely helped.
I still get the same thrill walking into a beauty hall that I did as a teenager, just with better judgment and a slightly higher budget these days. It’s the possibility of discovery – maybe you’ll find your perfect red lipstick, or finally solve that skin issue, or just spend an hour being pampered by someone whose job it is to make people look better. Even if you leave with one wrist smelling like an entire perfume counter and mysterious foundation smudges up your arm, there’s something magical about these glittery temples to self-improvement.
My beauty writer friends call it the “beauty hall time warp” – you pop in for mascara and emerge three hours later with a bag full of things you didn’t know you needed and a face covered in various tester products. But that’s exactly why I love them. In an increasingly utilitarian world, beauty halls are little pockets of possibility and indulgence. Sure, we know intellectually that no serum is actually going to change our lives. But for a few minutes at that shiny counter, with an expert telling you how transformative this little pot will be… well, you can believe. And sometimes that feeling’s worth every overpriced penny.
Claire started Claire Wears to bridge the gap between fashion media and real life. Based in Chicago, she writes with honesty, humor, and a firm “no” to $300 “affordable” shoes. Expect practical advice, strong opinions, and the occasional rant about ridiculous trends.
