The Perils of Presenting -- Greasy Face 101

Beard cover.  In the past, I've put way too much thought into it.  And for good reason: I had a pretty heavy black beard.  So fifteen years or so ago, in the early 90s, I worked up enough courage to go into a J.C. Penneys in the middle of the Colorado prairie.  Well, it was in a town, and it was on the prairie, but close to the edge, not the middle ... ok, it was in  Greeley.

Anyway, I entered the J.C. Penney and did the usual dry-run passes by the makeup counter.  I had concocted a fool-proof alibi that would spare me any embarrassment and leave the clerk totally clueless about the true nature of my mission.  The following is a recreation of that fateful day:

Me:   Uh, I'm involved in a, uh, play ... community theater.  (oh God, oh God ... she's smirking at me!  She knows!!)

She:   (smiling) Oh?  And how can I help?  (Why is he sweating so much?)

Me:    Uh, they told me I had to get something called (I look down at a scrap of paper prepared for the purpose)  Derma Blend.  For, uh, the stage ...

She:    Certainly, sir. (she reaches down into the counter and pulls out a box, and sets it on the counter).

Me:   (fighting the urge to run or vomit or both) Ah, what, uh color should I get?

She:   (peering judiciously at my face) I think ... a medium beige.

Me:    (I notice that it just happens to be the shade she put on the counter.  How did she DO that?).  Great!

 She:   That'll be $22.50.  (smirking)  Have fun in your ... play.

At least, that's how I remember it ...

Well, however it happened, I went back to the motel in Fort Collins, troweled some Derma-blend onto my face (it even came with a little putty knife, cool!) and stepped out into the night.  Thus I entered into a night-time ritual shared by generations of crossdressers before me: the dead-of-night 20-yard dash to the car.  I was very proud.