Practical Glamour

She wears a knee-length T-shirt and a mask of yogurt and cucumbers. She is reading Zola’s THE LADIES’ PARADISE, a novel about a Parisian department store which drives the small shops out of business. Like the characters in the novel, she sees herself going mad at the lace counter, rushing home to sew “blonde lace” onto dresses. Nobody buys lace anymore. When was the last sale on lace?

She decides to visit a department store. There’s nothing she needs, but she makes a list. She loves the practical glamour of cosmetics and decides to check out moisturizers and eye creams. Most of them, as she knows, cost more than her clothing. She is unlikely to buy anything, but one of the black-clad clerks may offer her a special deal.

Like Buy One, Get One free.

She waits for her mask to dry, then stares at her greenish-white mask in the mirror before washing it off. The mask has briefly softened her skin. She squints at the wreck of her face. She makes a face. She dresses in capris and a thrift-store blouse. She grabs the car keys.

Zoom.

She’s there.

She enters the department store and is briefly ecstatic. The air conditioning blasts. Practical glamour. It has to do with lighting and atmosphere. A good design. She wants everything she sees: frilly nightgowns and lingerie, the summer dresses and skirts on sale (she tries on a short-sleeved linen dress with a matching jacket), sweaters, slacks, and designer hoodies (formerly known as sweatshirts), boot-cut pseudo-sweatpant capris and matching t-shirt, a Fossil messenger bag, Crocs, cowboy boots, walking shoes, high heels like the ones she broke her ankle in (never again), adorable socks with a design of lounging readers, another pair with a design of old record players. She buys the socks.

Then the cosmetics. No, she doesn’t want a makeover, though she’s fascinated by the customer who, perched on a tall stool, is being turned into a clone of...some model? One of the clerks gives her a free sample of a moisturizer that instantly rejuvenates the skin. She tries a sample on her hand and voila! it works. It costs $100 for a few ounces, so, though she’s wildly tempted, she buys a cheaper product that, of course, doesn’t work.

She loves the jars and tubes of moisturizers and compacts of what appear to be water colors (eye shadow, blush, lipliner). She pictures them lined up on her vanity table, which she uses as a desk. On a break from her computer, she could apply cosmetics. Bored? Paint your eyelids.

She buys eye shadow.

if only she had a job at the department store...she’s convinced she could sell almost anything...she could buy the rejuvenating cream at a discount.... she’d have a whole new look...

As soon as she’s out the door, into the blast of heat, she knows she’s too lazy to paint her eyelids. She goes back to the counter and returns the eye shadow. Then she goes home and applies her moisturizer (which works well for about five minutes) and finishes her Zola novel.