The Dirt Field

I went to Sephora the other night to get some moisturizer. I’d been in a few weeks earlier to get a sample to try, since I hadn’t used a moisturizer in several years. When I’d  asked for assistance in selecting one, the sales girl demanded to know why I hadn’t been moisturizing regularly in the same tone of voice I would use to ask someone why they refused to use toilet paper. Apparently being female and not moisturizing my face every day is unthinkable.

I liked the sample I’d gotten during that visit, but wasn’t ready to commit to a $40+ tiny bottle of cream, so I went back in and asked for help in choosing another one. This sales woman was less judgmental than the last, and she led me to a dermatologist-created line of products and dispensed a sample for me to take home. I then asked her why she recommended that particular product.

“This is what you should be using at the first signs of aging.”

I almost choked. “But I’m twenty-five.”

She looked at me knowingly and replied smugly, “Mmmm-hmmm.”

Later that evening, I was complaining to Bobby that the lady at Sephora said I was aging. He had little comfort to offer, but commented, “It’s a well-known fact that men age better than women. We’re like vampires and you guys are like turds.”

I don’t even know what that means, but it does not sound like a compliment.