I tread warily into Super-Pharm, knowing that the cosmetic counter ladies are going to make a bee-line for me. It must be something about my post-menopausal, over-fifty face, that they home right into me as I near their section. I try to avoid them as I head to the shelf for nail polish. But they stop me in my path, steering me to the anti-wrinkle creams and their ‘three-for-the-price-of-one’, 200-shekel-a-jar special.

I figure, “Okay, I will give you a moment of my time” only to be informed that one jar of their bla bla bla cream alone won’t do. I have to have their moisturizer for the day-time, and then their special serum for the night. “The skin’s needs are different during the day than the night, ‘nachone’?” (‘right?’) And then, my flabby face contours must be contained, so neck cream is also pre-requisite. It’s almost like a ‘Lady in Decline’ is written all over my face, and my spirit sags correspondingly.

And then I feel anger well within me. “This is profiling at its worse!” I realize. After all, the sales staff don’t accost over-weight people as they amble into the store and steer them to the ‘Slim-Fast’ section. So, in a burst of feminine defiance I spit out, “I am 45 years old and have been using your products for the last l0 years, AND SEE WHERE IT’S GOT ME!” And at that, I stalk off, with a bevy of bewildered salesladies left in my wake; and my pride, if not my skin, restored for a little while longer.