My commute to and from work is an hour and a half each way. Since I find it exhausting to be awake, let alone go to work, adding an extra three hours to my day is a challenge for me. Luckily, I work at a company that has a well-established carpooling and transportation system. The only problem with this system is that each night, I am deposited in front of a Macy’s department store and left to fend for myself.

Usually I am capable of resisting, but the other night, in a moment of weakness, I went in. I wandered aimlessly through the departments, knowing that I wanted something—it could be anything, really—I just had to find it.

Clutching the pair of Calvin Klein skivvies that I had picked up in my travels through the lingerie department, I headed downstairs to the make-up counter. Like an addict about to score, I knew what I was doing was a bad idea, but I just wanted it so bad. I tried to rationalize it. “I’m out of moisturizer,” I told myself. “I’ll just get that. And maybe one other thing. Just to treat myself.”

The ‘treating myself’ concept is laughable to anyone that knows me. One who lives frugally could treat oneself to something now and again, but I try to live each day as if the Great Depression or some sort of ration book system were lurking around every corner. I have earned a reputation at work for being the recipient of packages many times a week due to my affection for online shopping.

However, despite my acceptance of my shopping ‘problem’, my judgment is not so obscured as to prevent me from recognizing that the make-up counter is not a safe place for me to be. Since I tend to shop alone, the salespeople act as surrogate friends to me. Ever the optimist, I fall for their trickery and buy whatever it is they attempt to sell me. This is especially true at the make-up counter, where they insist on giving me makeovers. I generally feel so guilty for the time they spend on me, that I must buy whatever it is they are selling, even when it is wrinkle cream or botox alternatives.

This time, I vowed to go in, buy what I needed, and get out. Then, of course, when the woman approached me, palate in hand, and asked to give me a makeover, I couldn’t refuse. “I guess so,” I said hesitantly. “Try not to make me look like a tramp, okay?”

Like any true artist, she ignored my instructions and proceeded to paint me up like a chippie. She examined the black rings around my eyes first. “Have you not been sleeping, sweetheart?” she cooed at me. All natural, I have come to look on them as my signature, much like Cindy Crawford’s mole. I then gave her a run-down of my sleeping habits, which generally leave me comatose more than cognizant, and she winced with displeasure.

Her work began, and though I tried to slow her down, it was all I could do to keep her from releasing all of her creative energy, and greasepaint, onto me. I told her the story of the last makeover I got, where the woman was under the mistaken impression that I was a Latina. She painted me a caramel brown, and then put a heavy purple lipliner on me and sent me out onto the streets of Manhattan. That was the most recent time I vowed to never get a makeover again. “That’s terrible sweetie,” the woman said distractedly as she applied numerous shades of blue and purple eyeshadow well past my eyelids and well into my eyebrows.

She examined me carefully. “Your eyes…they’re like beautiful pools.” She paused a moment. “A man could just drown in your eyes.”

“As long as it’s fatal,” I replied, in all seriousness.

Confused, she looked at me, her penciled-in eyebrows forming question marks. I took the opportunity to try and slow her down. “I’m actually looking for more of a ‘daytime’ look,” I said.

“This is perfect for work or anything!” she bleated, and headed for my pouty gills with hot pink lipstick. I knew, from bitter experience, that there was no point in trying to stop her, or even slow her down at this point. My only chance was to get through it as best I could, and pray that I didn’t see anyone I know--or anyone trolling for prostitutes, for that matter--on my way home.

She finally finished, and I approached the mirror hesitantly. I tried not to gasp openly as I saw my reflection. I didn’t even look like a scarlet woman as I expected, instead, I looked like I had just received the beating of my life after a long night drinking. She looked at me expectantly, and I claimed to adore my new look, not knowing what else to say. Sorry, Ma’am, although I appreciate the effort, but I am firmly against domestic abuse, and I expect my visage to reflect that. It was just easier to get out of there as quickly as possibly.

I couldn’t help but glance in the mirror again as I walked towards the register. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, I thought. Perhaps men are attracted to painted and demoralized women. I jutted my swollen lips out, held my head a little higher, and pulled out my wallet.