Yesterday, I told myself, “Jennifer, you could feel better about your Methuselah age if you tried a little harder.” So, I made an appointment at Ulta, a beauty supply company. I told them I wanted someone to show me how to apply makeup.

I intentionally put only lotion on my face, put my chin down and shoulders back, and walked into the glitz, glam, and mirrors. Did I mention everyone in the place was under twelve, beautiful, and eager?

I wanted to leave.

A stunning young woman with big black eyes and long, shiny hair said, “Are you Jennifer?” I was stuck.

We visited for a minute, and as she guided me up and down aisles of a gazillion products, she asked me at least two dozen questions I could not answer.

“Do you want full, medium, or light coverage?”

“Do you like pencil or gel eyeliner?”

“Do you like cream blush?”

“What shade of concealer do you use?”

The only question I had an answer for was, “Is your skin oily, normal, or dry.?” I immediately took the opportunity to get one correct answer, “Dry!”

After she filled a cute orange bag with pencils, tubes, brushes, and numerous things in little boxes, she had me sit in front of a massive mirror with many lightbulbs. My bare face and reddish plaid shirt reflected off numerous mirrors within a ten-foot radius.

I looked at my image in the mirror and thought, Oh, you poor thing!

God bless this young woman. She brushed, detailed, and blended on my face, eyes, and lips. She worked, then often stood back, looked at me, and said, “Oh, you are beautiful—that looks so good on you—oh, yes, perfect.”

I have to admit, I did look better.

When she finished, she admired her work and sweetly asked if I was interested in buying any wonder products. I said, “Well, I probably need to since most of what I use is at least five years old.” She was stunned and had no words.

I said, “Okay, I’ll take that, and that, and that. . .” Prices were not on the packaging, so when the three beautiful young women at the checkout counter chattered and giggled and, with fluttering long, heavy eyelashes, said, “That will be $@#+)% &*.00,” I thought, Oh my goodness!

I walked out carrying this tiny bag filled with everything that would make me—poorer. But I also felt a little fancy and less dry and limp when I stopped for lunch.

The humor and the temporary ego boost may be worth the money now if I could only remember where and how the beautiful girl with perfect skin applied the products on my Visa card to my face.

Whew!

Until the next time: Live while you live.

Jennifer Goble, Ph.D., LPC, is the author of “My Clients…My Teachers,” and the blogger and writer of Rural Women Stories: www.ruralwomenstories.com.

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