Turning Pink

How a year with Mary Kay turned a shy writer into a gutsy moneymaker. It wasn't the lipstick.

"OK, LADIES," Elizabeth Dahlgren saya. "It's that time!"

You can tell from the stretch of her smile that this is a moment she’s been waiting for. Wearing a pressed grey Mary Kay Inc. business suit, her layered and blown-dry blonde hair bounces in anticipation, and her eyes look wide and bright—thanks in part to well-positioned eyeliner and mascara.

Five ladies join her at the front of the room. The remaining 10 in the audience stand up. I guess I should stand up with them.

“Read-y?” It comes out as a high-pitched singsong. Elizabeth’s excitement hangs like perfume: When it’s there, everybody knows it. The more animated she gets, the more worried I become. What exactly are we getting ready for?

Then the cheering begins.

Elizabeth leads the five women in front as they step side to side, left to right, clapping rhythmically, and calling out “We’re red hot! We’re red
hot! And once we start we just can’t stop we’re hot! We’re hot!”

She looks out at the rest of us, nodding expectantly. “Ladies? Everybody now!” They—we—start clapping, too.

I only do it to blend. It’s kind of my lifetime M.O., blending. Camouflaging. Observing.

But Elizabeth needs more: “Now I want you to all introduce yourselves and say what you did this week that makes you red hot!” My palms sweat. So much for blending.

It starts with the front row. “I’m Flora! And I’m hot! Because I did 30 faces in 30 days!”

“Whoo!” everyone screams. Everyone but me, that is. I didn’t bargain for this. Makeup? Sure. Camaraderie? OK. But…cheering?

This is the kind of thing I’ve put much energy into avoiding for the past 29 years. Shyness has always tripped me. The memories whoosh over me like a wave. I’m sitting in kindergarten, watching my classmates march up to my teacher’s
desk and read to her. Those who succeed walk across the room to select a reader from the bookshelf. Those who fail slink back to their seats. Though I’d been reading at home for well over a year, I feign illiteracy. Just so I can slink back to my seat. Flash forward to college, when, two weeks before graduation I break my ankle. Ahh, I think, actually relieved, as my foot dangles freely from my leg. Now I won’t have to walk across the stage.

That’s it! I think as the red-hot dance gets closer. I could break something again! But that would only draw even more attention to me. My shoulders hunch in subconscious effort to make myself shrink.

“I’m Emily! And I’m hot! Because I sold an Ultimate Miracle Set!”

“Whoo!”

Now I’m mixing my fear with self-doubt. Even if I somehow live through this cheer thing, how can I teach other people to make their eyelashes look nice when I still consider those metal curler things a torture device? “Beauty” has never been
a priority in the lives of the Silvers. Even in my youth, I’m not sure the word “pretty” was ever used in my home. We were encouraged to get good grades and be good people and, sure, to look presentable. My sister and I weren’t tomboys, but we weren’t exactly clad in pink, either. If our father had ever called us “princess,” I think we would have made barfing noises until we went hoarse.

Back in high school, when most girls were really primping and peacocking, I was accidentally oversleeping and then throwing on a uniform on my way to all-girls Catholic school. Where I didn’t exactly hang with the cheerleaders. I was on the fringe of a number of groups: the athletes, the weirdos, the smart girls. I was never quite sure where to sit at lunch. At my progressive college, makeup was considered un-feminist, and that was just fine by au-natural me. I don’t think I styled my hair until about four years ago. Now I’m surrounded by women who live to do just that—and more. Worse, They’re chanting about it.

The next red-hot dancer is up. Three more until they get to me. She has a mane of black hair, a perfect tan, and a beauty-queen smile. She would have hung with the cheerleaders. I’m sure of it.

“I’m Christina! And I’m hot! Because I had a $200 day!”

“Whoo!”

The only heat I feel is washing over me, starting with my back, whipping up to my forehead, and exiting through sweaty hands. I might pass out. What am I doing here?

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