Photo: y-a-n

This time a few years ago, I met a woman who might have been a Christmas Angel. Of course, she may only have been a retired showgirl. Either way, I remember her well.

I'd gone to Macy's to do a little holiday shopping. I walked in and breezed through the things-for-others displays. After taking a minute to mourn for all the men who'd find a nose and ear hair groomer under the tree, I was distracted from my selfless mission by the lipstick-for-me section.

There was plenty of time to contemplate the politics of the cosmetics department as I waited to find out how many meals I could buy for the price of a lip gloss. I was at the counter where a team of hotties wearing tool belts of make-up brushes were busy doing makeovers.

They dabbed and blotted in time with Justin Timberlake on their private sound system. Like artists in a fever of great inspiration, they were not to be interrupted. Too aloof to even talk with the women they were painting, I suspected it would be awhile before a 30-something wearing polyester blend got any attention.

Yet I stood there.

I looked over at the hungry salespeople on the side of the store listening to elevator music, and wondered why I didn't go see if the woman in the lab coat would wait on me. I knew she'd be eager to, and somehow that made her wares less appealing.

As a few other beautiful, young customers filled in the space around me to wait for their chance to become goddesses, I concluded that the reason we stood there was the same reason we were shopping for beauty in the first place: to get attention from people who wouldn't otherwise give the time of day. It struck me that this kind of insecurity is profoundly unattractive.

Just as I was examining my motives for wanting to wear what the hip kids do, my attention was drawn to an older woman who approached the counter.

"Honey, where's the glitter?" she asked impatiently over the tops of others' heads. She had to be in her late 70's, and was breaking all the unspoken rules of coolness in the culture of the counter.

The distracted consultant pointed her over to the testers near me, which is how I met this enigma named Myrna.

Myrna's skin was the color of paper, and wrinkled like it had been wadded up and straightened back out. We exchanged pleasantries, and I held the hand-mirror as she patted glistening powder on her crinkled lids. I followed her with it into better lighting so she could see the shimmer. We tried several, but they were all way too subtle for her liking. She was trying to replace a discontinued brand. Said she wished she'd bought a whole case when she could have. Instead, she found herself in this awful predicament — She was completely out of glitter for church.

"I like to sparkle for Jesus." she said with a wink.

Well, twinkle twinkle at the mall — Myrna likes to sparkle for Jesus!

I was dying to know what she had in the little Victoria Secret bag, and if that purchase had anything to do with her idea of Sunday best. But I didn't ask. I just smiled at the reminder that the people who don't try desperately to be like the crowd are the ones that keep life interesting.

Ultimately, Myrna didn't find what she wanted, but she had faith it would all work out all right. I gave up my spot at the cosmetics counter too, and went home instead with a lesson. If Myrna was a Christmas angel, I'm pretty sure she was there to point out the absurd. Because we all know that once you figure out how to sparkle on the inside, nobody cares what you have on your face.