The other day I am in the local grocery store doing some shopping for a large party I’m throwing, so consequently I need a bunch of really odd-ball things: those toothpicks with the little frilly bits, paper plates with compartments, and mini-marshmallows. Not things that are part of your typical grocery list and all to be found in those non-frequented back aisles of the grocery store. So, at any rate, I’m just examining the myriad paper cups—who knew we needed all of these varieties, and why are they stamped with a small "1" at the bottom?—when a lady with an empty shopping cart approaches me and says, "Wow, would you look at all these varieties of paper cups!" Being polite, I agree, browse some more, reach past her to get the items I need, and then continue on to the next aisle.

Who do I encounter hanging around the mini-marshmallows but the same lady, who says to me, "Wow, would you look at all the varieties of chocolate!" Chocolate is a subject near and dear to my heart, so I agree more heartily, procure the mini-marshmallows, and continue on. Next stop: ice cream (this is going to be some party). Well, you can guess who I meet there: the same lady admiring the ice cream selection. I figure she too is throwing a party, but I’m quickly disabused of this notion. Her cart, I now notice, is mysteriously empty.

"I hope you don't mind my asking," she says, "but would you be interested in a facial?"

Huh?

"You see," she hastily continues, "I sell Mary Kay, and I would like to offer you a free facial and talk about some of our products. You don’t have to buy anything."

For the first time, I stop and take a good look at this woman and am rather alarmed at what I see. She is wearing a wheatgrass-green polyester suit coupled with a cream-colored blouse and flouncy bowtie, the kind popularized by Princess Diana in the ’80s. Her lipstick had smeared across her chin, her teeth, and the space between her nose and upper lip in an ugly orange (yes, orange) mess. Her short, bleached, and coiffed hair had overstayed its welcome in the humidity and taken on a tired and angst-ridden look. The overall effect was of a den mother who had hyperspaced into an empty nester without any warning. If I were a Mary Kay brand manager, I would be seriously worried that this person was associating herself with my products.

Little does this woman know, I recently moved up to the Northwest from Dallas, where I grew up, and where the late Mary Kay is not only an institution, but also an idol—a model of the self-made woman. The signature pink Cadillacs cruise Dallas streets. For the benefit of this forlorn peddler in the grocery store, I crack a winning Texas smile (nobody does that like we do in Texas), saying with as much Southern charm as I can muster, "No, thanks, but I appreciate the offer."

You see, nobody does makeup like Texas women. When Texas women are in full battle gear, they’re completely irresistible creations. Every nook and cranny, hair and nail is shined, buffed, colored, and sealed. No actual original bits show through: the legs are waxed, the brows plucked, the body tanned, the hair shellacked, and the wrinkles botoxed. Women may look like they’re going to the annual board meeting of the country club when they are only stepping out to buy soap. Once, the local high-brow magazine ran a story on what average Dallas women should spend annually in order to keep themselves in top physical form. The magazine estimated that a Dallas woman spends $12,000 per year on her outward appearance, including everything from highlighting to facial peels. What the magazine was telling me was that I should spend more on my face than I did on my mortgage. (It is possible to own a house for less than a $12,000 per year, something Northwesterners just don't understand.) And, of course, this fanciful number did not even begin to take into account shopping at Neiman’s or a single pair of Jimmy Choos, also de rigueur.

And then I compare this to the average woman in the Northwest. The situation couldn’t be more different.

So I begin to wonder: why is this woman in the back aisles of the grocery store? It dawns on me: in the Eddie Bauer sensibility of the Northwest, where else can this lady hope to run into large numbers of women whom she perceives to be her target market? It would have to be in the weekday afternoons of a suburban grocery store. Little does she realize that she had just run into someone all too familiar with the real thing, and to tell you the truth, she doesn’t stand a chance.


This essay is part of a series, "Cowgirl Moves to the Northwest."