I tend to steer clear of department-store makeup counters. I’m out of my element among the pots of powder and globs of goo that other women use to “put on their face.” I ventured hesitantly to one last year, only to have a well-meaning saleswoman lean in close, peer at me and pronounce, “Oh, honey, you need to moisturize. It’s time,” sounding as if she were escorting me to the electric chair.
So it was with trepidation that I recently made my way to the Benefit counter at Marshall Field’s. (The company doesn’t animal test; a major thumbs-up.) I was feeling pale and wan and figured a spot of faux color on my cheeks might help.
Turns out, I wasn’t getting off that easy. A lip-lined woman swathed in black took one look at me and said, “We can do better than that!” She pulled me to a chair, plopped me down and proceeded to tweeze, powder and paint. In a display of impressive triage skills, two of her co-workers zipped back and forth grabbing products for me and offering suggestions.
“You’re lucky we’re slow today,” my beauty savior declared.
About $200 and a new Marshall Field’s charge card later, I was a new woman, poorer but more polished.
That night I scrubbed the stuff off and called a new guy friend. Somehow we wound up talking about our childhoods and our mothers. Unaware of my earlier venture, he described how his mother would spend hours putting on makeup each day.
“I really like it when women don’t wear makeup,” he said.
I blushed. Naturally.