One of the strangest places on this planet, to me, is the make up counter at your local Belks. It's brightly lit, lined with heavily made up woman holding bottles of expensive product and house music thumps, barely audible in the background. The aromas of all the perfumes hover as one indistinct presence that gets in my eyes and threatens to close my breathing tube. It makes me wonder if there is some kind of black lung disease equivalent for the make up counter worker. (Searching for an appropriate neologism and coming up empty). Pink lung disease? That might work.
I was in Belk's to buy undies and I was trying to stride through the make up area as quickly as possible. The heavily made up faces are just creepy. What did John Lennon say? "We make her paint her face and dance." One of the women actually offered me a sample card. Was it cologne? Her phone number? A pocket mirror? Sometimes with the heavy makeup and bright light in there I expect the whole lot of them to break into a song and dance routine like out of a movie musical. The next time I go in there it would be fun for me if they started singing and dancing to "Springtime for Hitler."