So there I was, barrelling through the V&A Waterfront shopping mall, arms weighed down by carrier bags containing the most unglamorous of purchases – household cleaning products. I had been battling insomnia for a few nights in a row, wasn’t wearing any make-up, was running late … too much to do, too little time to do it in, and too little money to go around.
Suffice to say, I was in my own little bubble, dealing with life’s issues as I made my way to my car.
Suddenly, some fellow steps in front of me. Young, good looking, charming, very engaging. ‘I can get rid of those wrinkles for you,’ he says. This is not usually how I like to be ripped from my thoughts. I half stop, look quizzically at him … ‘Sorry, what?’
‘All those wrinkles around your eyes. I can take them away,’ he says.
‘Now HOW is that supposed to make me FEEL BETTER?’ I almost shout at him. Actually, maybe I did shout. ‘Some guy stopping me in the middle of the shopping centre, in front of everyone, telling me about my wrinkles?’
I mean, good grief! I am a woman of a certain age. Of course I have wrinkles around my eyes. I also laugh and smile a lot. I’ve had crinkles around my eyes since I was a kid. Okay, so on that day they were more worry lines than laughter lines … but was I interfering with him?
The fellow, along with being fairly good looking and charming, is also incredibly thick-skinned. He pokes his fingers at my face. ‘All these lines,’ he says again, leading unwilling, very resistant me to his kiosk.
‘I’m not buying anything,’ I say firmly.
‘No, no, I am not selling anything,’ he says in his attractive Israeli accent.
‘I’ve seen your product. I’ve bought before, and I know you want to sell me something. I’m not buying.’
‘No, I not sell,’ he insists.
My arms are lengthening with each minute I’m standing there, the plastic handles are cutting into my fingers. I need to go. I have to fetch a child from school, finish some work …
The man is undeterred. He will have his way. He starts slopping lotion on my face. My hands are holding the bags, I can’t push him away. Then he takes me by the arm and leads me to a chair, makes me sit, even while still holding onto the heavy bags. He starts putting more lotion around my one eye.
‘What is this?’ I want to know. But he babbles on about my lines, my wrinkles, my sagging face that needs to be lifted. Now, look, I know there are women who go on television programmes and take this kind of criticism in full international view. But I never signed up for that. I was just trying to make my way home. Sort out my finances. Clean that kitchen. Fetch my child from school.
And, no, I am not enjoying being told about how deep the lines around my eyes are!
More lotion is slapped on. ‘But I am not buying,’ I keep saying. ‘I am sure your product is wonderful. I have bought something here before. But I am not buying today.’
Mr Rhino Hide pushes on. Fetches a mirror. Shows me the miraculous difference between the skin around the one eye and the skin around the other eye. My wrinkles around the left eye are shorter. They have been eradicated – permanently. The Dead Sea product has not only cured the ones that were there, but is also preventing the future ones from scarring my face. And this stuff can lift my face! Drag it up from where it hangs from my cheekbones.
‘Yes, very nice,’ I say. ‘But I am not buying it.’
He puts the two products in front of me. One thousand rand each. He is confused, aghast even, that I am not pulling notes from my pockets and immediately buying these two products. Two thousand rand (that’s about $266) without even thinking. No!
‘Why not?’ he d