When I got to the next counter, I was immediately approached by a flawlessly flaxen woman with hair pulled back into an instant facelift, perfectly outlined red lips and skin the pallor of an Alaskan American Girl doll. The scent of my mother readying herself for a night on the town was upon me. It was Chanel.

"What is it you’re looking for?" asked Ms. Chanel, with an air of contempt mixed with ennui that sounded like she was missing precious time in the Hamptons for this.

After explaining my plight of the dark circles, Ms. Chanel informed me that every ounce of makeup I currently was wearing was complete garbage for my skin.

"But I just got some alpha-hydroxy stuff at Dr. Origin. I'm okay with my skin, what I need is something for my--"

Ms. Chanel shushed me. Normally, I would not let another grown woman shush me. I am a mother, I do the shushing. However, Ms. Chanel was a force to be reckoned with. She squeezed me into her high chair that was designed for a size 0 high schooler without hips, then pumped me up, up, up, so that I was staring right into the stone cold perfectly lined and lashed, beady brown eye of my captor. Ms. Chanel then swiped some astringent on my skin and, after showing me the cotton pad, convinced me of something I'd suspected all along -- I was dirty.

"The first thing you need to combat those circles is a good eye cream," she said.

Eye cream? You mean like the kind my grandmother used to keep her lids from falling off? Had it come to that? Apparently it had.

"The skin is like a desert. You must irrigate underneath in order for it to RISE to the surface."

I knew I should’ve studied that segment on agricultural propagation in college.

Ms. Chanel continued, "You start with the tiniest bit of cream. Just a speck. Here, see that?" she asked, pointing to a dot of white cream smaller than the head of a pin, “That’s enough for TWO eyes."

Perhaps if you have the eye diameter similar to a Chihuahua's I thought, but said nothing as Ms. Chanel dabbed the tiny morsel of cream under each of my tired, puffy eyes and exclaimed like a revival-house preacher that "the lift" was working. "Can you see it?" she asked.

I looked in the mirror, another funhouse special and decided once again to defer to the expert. "How much is this stuff?"

"150 dollars. But this tube will last you a full year. More maybe. It’s an excellent investment. You really need it. You’re very dry."

"Like the desert."

"Exactly--" she said, while putting the magic youth potion back into the locked cabinet"-- But it’s entirely up to you."

I was starting to feel like a customer in "Death Becomes Her." If I didn’t buy the stuff, my head might spin backwards on my body. Who would raise my children? I couldn't bear the thought. Besides -- 150 dollars? That was like, what --twenty vente latte's. Why caffeinate when I could get a lift?

"What about the concealer?" I asked, as Ms. Chanel rang up my eye cream purchase.

"We don’t have anything that will cover your circles. Why don’t you try Dermablend?"

Continued -->>