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Monday, February 4, 2013

Isis: The Beauty Myth Chapter 3

I somberly stare at my reflection in the glass of the framed black-and-white photo myself in the Ebony Fashion Fair ad from 1958. Fifty years ago I was the face. Now I’m in the shadows peddling overpriced designer greasepaint to their grandchildren.
If I hadn’t been born during Jim Crow I could have been one of the greats of the fashion world instead of a forgotten footnote in Black history. If I had my youth and beauty in this age, I could have given the great models of this time a run for their money. And with my inimitable style I could have even been more popular than they were.
I wish I could get out there, be like I was in my prime. Instead I’m stuck in this office managing a face-painting factory instead of being the face selling the paint to the masses. Sure the extensive knowledge of dermatology and biochemistry I’ve acquired over the past fifty years have made me one of the richest Black cosmetic manufacturers in the world. But for all my constant efforts, I’ve yet to find the formula of chemicals that would allow me to return to the runway.
The computer on my glass-topped desk chirps a prompt. It looks like the BeautyScan software at the Madison Avenue store has picked up something. I grab my mouse and click the BeautyScan icon on the monitor. In an instant the statistics pop up on the screen.
This can’t be possible.
But these CarbonDNA results say one of these women is over four thousand years old and the other is close to two thousand years old!
It can’t be a glitch; I had our IT specialist check the equipment for that store just yesterday. Everything has been working fine for the past two hundred BeautyScans. All the data I collected on those women has been consistent with normal human aging. But this aberration proves my theory was right. There is a way to retard the aging process. Maybe even a way to reverse it.
I’m eager to see who these two ancient strangers are. I move my pointer over to the Security icon and click it. In another instant I’m shown the security footage of the two customers being assisted by one of our salespeople. The tall voluptuous brunette almond skinned woman in the red dress and heels doesn’t look a day past twenty-five, and her slender golden skinned chestnut haired companion in the jeans, sneakers, and sleeveless blouse doesn’t look a day past eighteen. What could they be possibly doing that has them looking so young?
This data requires some personal investigation. I jump out of my seat, hit the button on my intercom and get the attention of my secretary. “Jenny, have the car meet me downstairs. I need to go to our Madison Avenue store.”

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