The Beauty Cult in our village

“Bigger and brighter than ever", ran the announcement of our local trades Exhibition, and, for additional attraction, "admission free this year.” So we all trooped in. Not that we expected any great surprises -  year by year we sip strange drinks at our grocer's stand, and admire the model bathroom displayed by our ironmonger, so it was not with any great hope that we applauded the openers and set off to explore. But in a moment we were all crowding round one exhibit. Here at last was something new. Our hairdresser, inspired by Olympia, was offering "Free beauty treatments", and to demonstrate them were not her usual white-overalled assistants but two strange houris, one with gold and silver curls and the other with jade-green nallis. With curiosity mixed with strong disapproval, the housewives gathered, jostling one another for front place.

" What's she going to do?" whispered one to the other, pointing at an empty chair, strangely reminiscent of a dentist's, which occupied the front of the stand. 

The green-nailed one was talking, displaying boxes of powder and rouges demonstrating on her hand the marvellous colour schemes that might be evolved. 

“Any lady may have a free makeup,” said she  alluringly, but beyond a general nudging of one another, there was no response. Her eye caught mine and before I know where I was, I was seated in the chair and gazing at the ceiling, my head and neck well swathed in rubber. 

The audience pressed closer, and more than one member of it identified me in an undertone. Though to the demonstrator I was but a victim, to then I was local housewife, and I blushed inwardly as I heard declaimed aloud intimate revelations about the state of my skin, and my general treatment of it. But this was not the worst. Having found a subject, the demonstrator’s blood was up.

 "Do Let me do a mudpack on you, now you are here,” she murmured, and I heard behind me a noise like the beating of batter. Before I could protest, palette knife descended on my face and a cold clammy substance was well plastered on. A howl of joy arose from the audience - the sound that greets the great custard pie  joke on the pictures, and as it died away, a cheerful whisper came up to me

"Just look at her face. Isn't it awful?" 

My blushes remained invisible beneath their load of mud, but with skilled hands the demonstrator operated wet towels and lotions till they came to the surface, after which they were again concealed beneath powder and rouge. Brushes worked on my eyebrows and Lips and at last, completely remade, I was held up to the approval of the biggest crowd the exhibition had yet gathered. Under a hail of comments, I crushed on my hat and slid off the stand. 

As I hid myself in the crowd, a hand fell on my arm, and an elderly woman smiled up at me. “Don't you mind their laughing, my dear," said she, kindly, “your face isn't bad at all.” 

She piloted me to the furniture exhibit where, in a full Length mirror we considered me from all angles. 

 *Not quite so fortyish?" said I, fishing. 

“Nowhere near forty," said she reassuringly. 

If one must suffer to be beautiful, it is nice to know that the suffering has achieved its object', isn't it?