There I was, Miss Happy to Work Here, in my gray-and-white uniform advertising Dermalogica products, my image on a white wall decorated with purple blocks. The quote under my picture jumped out at me. THE FACE IS A MIRROR OF THE SOUL. Employees were in the poster-sized ads up and down the hallway. We always joked that this place looked like either a clinic or an asylum.“What are you doing here, Livvy?”“Hey, Jenny.” I took my sunglasses off. “Came to buy products. Making baskets.”“Want to help with a European skincare class while you’re here?”“Short-handed?”“Need someone to work as a student. I mean . . . no pressure . . . up to you.”I smiled. She had read my face the way some specialists examined organs to diagnose patients. Didn’t matter. Everyone knew. Coworkers had been at the dinner party, witnessed my humiliation. My business echoed in these halls, another reason I kept working on the road.I ended up being at work half the day, first helping out with the class, then sitting in the break room, reviewing articles on aromatherapy treatments and Chinese diagnosis on the skin.I finally broke free and made it to the cashier, paid for all of my goodies, everything from cleansing gels to daily microfoliants to skin renewal boosters.
