So I wander into the Magic Ring of Origins Salespeople today, a safe enough adventure as long as you have your wits about you. Normally, I can get in and get out with a nice tub of moisturizer without succumbing to their assurances that my face wouldn't look quite so disastrous if I were to use some of their make-up. But since my skin rejects make-up like a mis-transplanted liver, I can usually fight them off.
Unfortunately, lately I've been weakened by the spectre of an upcoming wedding - a happy enough occasion, but one in which I must smile for pictures - something that makes my face seize up into fright masks worthy of a tribal art display.
An hour and a half later, I've been facialed, massaged and painted until I open my wallet and just let them take what they want.
Jacque tried valiantly to make foundation look like anything other than cheap latex paint set too close to the heater. When she had done all she could think of, she gave me the mirror with a really nervous look on her face. She had just never seen make-up try to escape a face before.
I felt so bad for her I bought everything but the foundation.
My face currently has so many layers of goop on it, I'm going to have to take a bath before bedtime so as not to ruin the sheets.
Man. I'm still working on this "being a woman" thing. I should have it down by the time I hit menopause.