I absolutely hate it when I'm in a shopping mall, and sales clerks at random kiosks try to get your attention to demo their products for you. If I was interested, I would come over. I have important things to do, and places to be. Like buying new boots, over in Little Burgundy.
Last week just such a clerk from a Seacret kiosk actually followed me into another store, so determined to sell me on this product. Have you heard of Seacret? It's a line of Israeli skin care products made with salts from the Dead Sea. Reluctantly, I trudge over to the kiosk. My hands were kind of dry anyway, after a hard day of shopping. A little moisturizer couldn't hurt.
During her spiel about serums and scrubs, I couldn't help but laugh. Was she working from a script? Sun damage? SUN damage? Has she even looked at my skin? I can't remember the last time I spent time in the sun. I come from Scottish ancestry, and burn when exposed to 40 watt incandescent bulbs. I can't say I spend a lot of time outdoors working on my tan. And I would like to think that my porcelain skin tone would be evident to her that a girl my age does not have SUN damage. I would like to think that, but really it's more like paste and less like porcelain. If she told me I have damaged skin from the fluorescent lighting at my office, or from the irradiating glow of my Macbook, then I might have been sold, but this... well, I couldn't hide my smirk.
Suddenly, a wave of doubt passed through my mind. My sneer melted as sheer panic washed over me. Maybe she's right? Maybe I do have sun damage. Maybe from that week in Mexico last year. Or from the time I spent the day out on the pier... when was that? Oh my God...
I began to frantically fish through my cluttered handbag, not for a mirror, but for my wallet. Relief settled in when my fingers found the smoother violet leather card holder. "How much?" I asked, eagerly.
I'm now on day eight of my new sea salt skin maintenance ritual, awaiting my miracle...
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