I think it’s always important to be honest.  So, true to my word, I should tell you at the outset, there will be nothing of particular significance shared in this post.  Basically I’m just trying to  kill some time until my kids wake up.


Recently, my daughter and I went to the mall to look at “stuff.”  (When did going to the mall become an American pastime or destination?)  After the obligatory stop at Abercrombie (I can still smell the store) and Claire’s we stopped by a make-up and skincare store.

I am 51 (not even close to old) but am starting to show some signs of aging on my face. (Like this is a bad thing?)  Years of training in the outdoors will do that to a woman’s skin.  I’m not concerned about it one bit…but thought, for the fun of it and because Helen and I were enjoying each other’s company, I would ask this wonderful teenager,who worked, in the store for her assistance.  (Alright she probably wasn’t a teenager, but I felt like I was old as I asked for her help. Funny, I didn’t feel old before I entered the store.  What’s that about?)

So anyway, this very young and very confident make-up/skincare consultant is going to consult with me and teach me how to apply certain products on my face. I sit on a stool.  Helen is on my left, said skincare/make up consultant is slightly to my right.  “These products will eliminate some of those obvious signs of aging and sun damage.” (May I interject a quick comment here.  I think my teenage friend was trying to make me feel good, but this statement somehow didn’t help.)



She applies something first…that has a very important medical name.  I am afraid of it, but she applies it anyway.  She applies the product in what I would call “military fashion.” My head is pushed back several inches with each application.  My daughter Helen thinks this is hilarious and begins what eventually turns into a running commentary of the entire event.  “Mom…gosh…PLEASE stop making those faces!”

Layer number one, completed, my personal make-up/skincare consultant now applies something else with a brush.  We have several “something elses” to go.  By the end of this consultation, I feel as if I have several inches of “something else” other than me, on my face.

Furthermore, she applied the something else’s so close to my eyes the fumes are beginning to make them red hot and I’m beginning to tear up.

“Are you okay?”  she asks.

“Yes,” I said stoically, trying to be sure that the make-up warrior in me didn’t reveal the fact that my eyes felt like they were going to permanently rebel against the mysterious-named-store toxic poison and close forever.

Meanwhile, Helen, my thirteen year old is telling me in my left ear (loudly by the way) in a kind of sing-song kind of Woody Woodpecker voice and in no uncertain terms, “Doesn’t look any different. Doesn’t look any different.  Doesn’t look any different.”  My make-up consultant continues to apply another layer of something else and Helen is persistently telling me throughout the latter stages of my makeover, “Doesn’t look any different, Mom.  Doesn’t look ANY different.”

When the consultant is done, I feel as if my face will crack if I smile, wink or speak.  I am blinded at this point by that darn third layer and weave my way dangerously toward the check-out counter.  I opted not to purchase the “something else package” and ended up purchasing some fruity lip gloss for Helen and blush for me.  I really didn’t want to purchase anything, but felt guilty for taking up so much time in the make-up chair.

On to the food court, just praying that I wouldn’t see anyone I knew.



I think I’ll just love my face the way it is and save the money for my children’s college tuition.