I’m learning the hard way that losing weight when you’re a senior citizen has its pros and cons. The pros are I have more energy and can fit into a smaller dress size.
The cons all have to do with my skin. No longer does it have the ability to spring back. It just hangs on me like wet laundry.
I’ve been able to hide all of the loose skin on my body by tucking it into my underwear, but unfortunately I can’t do the same with my face, which now flaps in even the slightest breeze. It looks totally deflated, kind of like a balloon that landed on a cactus.
When I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror the other morning, I wondered whose shriveled old face was staring back at mine. I concluded it had to be the ghost of Methuselah’s sister.
But I’d recently seen some videos on Facebook where several elderly women, whose faces had more wrinkles than an unmade bed, magically were transformed into smooth-skinned beauties merely by using cosmetics in a deceptive, camouflaging way. So I toyed with the idea of seeking help from a professional cosmetician to learn a few of those tricks.
However, I abruptly came to my senses after I recalled an incident from many years ago when I underwent a cosmetic makeover that had less than a stunning outcome. Much less.
And that was back when I, unlike now, barely had any wrinkles or sagging at all.
On that day, I’d been browsing in Jordan Marsh’s Bedford store when a 30-ish looking employee at one of the cosmetics counters flashed a very white smile at me and asked, “How would you like to look 15 years younger? I can show you how with our special line of cosmetics! It will take only a few minutes.”
Immediately, I felt ancient. Did I, I wondered, look that desperately in need of rejuvenation? And what about the makeup I was wearing – the makeup I’d so carefully applied before going shopping? Did it look as if I’d inherited it from my great-grandmother? Or even worse, did I look like my great-grandmother?
Intrigued, I laughed and said, “If you can make me look 15 years younger, I’ll buy everything you’re selling!”
Her eyes lit up like 100-watt bulbs. “Have a seat!” She waved her hand in the direction of a tall stool.
As she leaned toward me to study my face, I couldn’t help but notice that her own makeup was well, just a tad on the heavy side…as if perhaps she’d applied it with a trowel. Her eyeshadow was the color of robins’ eggs, her cheeks were bright red and her perfume was so overpowering, if a family of skunks had walked through the cosmetics department at that moment, I wouldn’t have been able to smell any of them. I fought the sudden urge to get up and run for my life.
She handed me a moist towelette and told me to wipe off my makeup. “I like to work on a clean canvas,” she said, “just like any good artist!”
I grabbed the towelette and scrubbed. When my original layer of skin finally peeked through, the clerk seemed stunned.
“My goodness, you’re a pale one!” she said. “I don’t think even our lightest shade of foundation is going to be light enough for you.”
“Then maybe you should get some of that white stuff mimes use on their faces and try that on me,” I joked.
She wasn’t amused
She grasped me by the chin and turned my head to one side. “Hmm. I see a lot of lines around your eyes and crinkles above your top lip,” she said. “Those are signs of dry, aging skin. You never should apply makeup without first using a good moisturizer.”
Previously, I’d never thought much about my wrinkly eyes or my pruned-up lips. Now, thanks to her, I was feeling like a giant sheet of crepe paper with eyeholes.
“I think the peach and rust shades will work best for you,” she said. “They will wake up your dull skin and bring it to life. The older you get, the more vibrant the colors should be because skin tends to look lackluster, uneven and washed out as we age. And brighter shades of lipstick will make your teeth look whiter in comparison.”
I quietly sat there as she went to work on my face. The more I thought about my washed-out skin, drab teeth and unsightly crow’s feet, the more I thought that maybe I should forget about the makeup and just head straight to the nearest cosmetic surgeon’s office.
“There!” she finally said after about 15 minutes of dabbing, smearing and painting. She stepped back and smiled with obvious satisfaction. “If I do say so myself, you look wonderful, vibrant! So refreshed, so much younger!” She handed a mirror to me.
I grabbed the mirror, expecting to see a teenager looking back at me. But as I stared at my reflection, I was rendered speechless (which, for me, was a rare occurrence). My makeup was vibrant all right. In fact, it was more like neon. My wrinkles no longer showed because they were buried beneath a thick layer of foundation and powder. My lips had been drawn larger than their true shape and then filled in with a bright orange gloss to make them look fuller. My eyes were lined in a deep, smoky gray, and my cheeks were a dark peach all the way up to my temples.
“So…what do you think?” the clerk eagerly asked.
“I think I look as if I should be standing on a street corner and calling out to sailors,” I blurted out.
Again, the woman displayed no sense of humor whatsoever.
I left there without purchasing anything and made a mad dash out to the parking lot. All the while I prayed no one I knew would see me before I was able to leap inside my car and hide.
But as luck would have it, I was within only a few feet of my vehicle when I came face to face with a former neighbor.
“Long time no see!” she said, giving me a brief hug. She then stepped back and stared critically at me. I held my breath, waiting for her next words, which I felt certain would involve some reference to the Ringling Brothers.
“You look amazing!” she finally gushed. “Younger than ever! Come on, fess up! You’ve had a few nips and tucks done, right?”
I didn’t answer her. I was too busy digging my credit card out of my purse and running back into the store.
I hate to admit it, but all of the cosmetics I purchased that day still remain unused and currently are buried somewhere in the dark recesses of one of my closets.
Maybe this would be a good time to find them and finally give them a try.
Now where did I put my trowel?
# # #
Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.
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