Sunday, Sep 7, 2008
As each women was introduced on the catwalk, her recent achievements were enumerated by our perky emcee. There was the Queen's Court of Sales, The Queen's Court of Recruiting, the Go-Give Award for doing the most to help others and a variety of other rewards for excellence in business and strength of character. For all the competition it must take to win these awards, I was genuinely surprised at the lack of competitiveness among the consultants. Achievement at Mary Kay was defined by competing against oneself, not others, and the company placed its highest value on helping others succeed. Mary Kay consultants make most of their money when the women they recruit do well. By nature of the compensation scheme, every consultant must develop other women's careers in order to be successful herself. Combined with Mary Kay's focus on women, this resulted in a definitive air of sisterhood -- in a scary, Southern sorority kind of way.
In sequined gowns and heavily bejeweled, the women came in all shapes, sizes and ages, and varied widely in their attractiveness. While other makeup companies use 15-year-old stick figures with high cheekbones to push product, Mary Kay pushes the idea that every woman can feel beautiful and be successful. There were women strutting their stuff on that catwalk who were kicking ass in their businesses at age 70 not to mention weighing in at some hefty proportions. And they felt glamorous and looked happy.
Paula's turn came. She walked quickly, with a smile so wide I thought her face would burst, jutting her shoulders and hips back and forward in opposite strokes like an insane rumba. She was wearing a black silk pantsuit with (what else) a sequined top in a sort of rainbow-speckled design. As the emcee finished enumerating her accomplishments, a look of concern came over her face. She exited quickly through the audience, as all the other models had, but then doubled back to the side of the stage to whisper something to the emcee. Then she dashed backstage and reemerged on the catwalk. The emcee had forgotten to mention one of her many accomplishments. Paula did the same crazy rumba routine, which conjured images of her practicing for hours in front of her mirror at home. The disappointment she felt at having it not go perfectly the first time was palpable.
Following the fashion show, speakers' topics ranged from "How to Change No to Yes Every Time" to "Advances in Nail Color Theory." These were followed by a string of personal testimonials on overcoming obstacles, followed by self-esteem affirmations straight from the makeup maven herself. We were then led through a cheer (one, two, three, four, get those recruits in the door); told that our priorities should be God first, family second and career third; and made to get up all at once, turn to the women next to us and shout "You're awesome and so am I!"
Just as I was beginning to see how this could be a good thing for some women, I started to get pissed off again. If I was collectively referred to as a gal or lady one more time, I feared I would stand up on my chair, Norma Rae-style, and start chanting "Take Back the Night" slogans while holding up a sign that said WOMAN scrawled in lip liner. And God first, family second, career third was more than I could handle. While I didn't argue that these were perfectly valid priorities for an individual to choose, having them dictated in the so-called workplace made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Just as I started to get up and look for a paper bag in case I started hyperventilating, the next speaker began by asking "How many of you out there have heard of the glass ceiling?"
The face of Mary Kay in the '90s had changed significantly. Realizing that the deep well of bored housewives had dried up and could no longer provide enough disgruntled and downtrodden women desperate for something to do, Mary Kay revised its message. It was no longer good enough to offer entry into the workforce to escape the isolation of being at home. Now women had to be convinced of the limitations of their current jobs, and see Mary Kay as the key to reaching full career potential. The pitch included co-opted feminist constructs like the glass ceiling to explain why many women felt unappreciated in their jobs. Fortunately for Mary Kay, the hordes of secretaries and dental hygienists among the recruits didn't realize that the glass ceiling didn't apply to them. They were not MBAs hovering in the purgatory of middle management, and that is just what Mary Kay is counting on. But at the same time, these women felt rejuvenated by the prospect of working hard to establish their own businesses, and Mary Kay was teaching them to do it. Why, then, did Mary Kay co-opt feminist messages to appeal to these women, and then turn around and patronize them by dictating their priorities? I was baffled. Boiling Mary Kay down to a few choice tidbits for a dry business report was becoming a greater challenge than I had anticipated. Was all this equivocation part of a brilliant marketing ploy or just a sign of ignorance?
Driving back from the meeting, Paula proceeded to tell me that you can't count on men in this world. Listing all her failed relationships, and all the men who had left her high and dry, she told me that without her Mary Kay success she would be nowhere. I was taken aback. This was not the party line I expected after hearing Ash on the subject of life's priorities. But Paula was not the automaton I thought she was. She had her own exceptions to the system. Remembering all the shitty things that had happened to her just reaffirmed her commitment to a company that had restored her faith in living. And she wanted to share that life lesson with me, genuinely, as a cautionary tale.
I found myself respecting this blurring of boundaries between the personal and the professional. Mary Kay had a human face, and it embraced people. It didn't demand that a woman's identity be subsumed into that of a neutered corporate drone in the interest of efficiency, like most of the companies I worked for. But Paula's final words to me before I got out of the caddy to return to my safe haven of bohemian squalor were chilling.
"I love my furs and my diamonds and I love this car. But do you know what Mary Kay has given me that she can never take back? My self-esteem. I had no self-esteem before Mary Kay came into my life."
I knew that I would never see Paula again, and that I would spend the next few months dodging her phone calls and ultimately disappointing her by not buying into the dream. She stood to make money off me if I was successful, as she felt certain I would be. But more than that, she truly felt that I, a young college graduate from a business field, would bring a new respectability to her and the company. If Mary Kay could begin to offer opportunities to the likes of me, the company had stepped up to a whole new level of legitimacy. And, ultimately for Paula, that's what Mary Kay offered her: respectability and legitimacy in the professional world.
Political ideas can be so well-crafted as to get in the way of reality when you let them. At 25, I was so full of raging feminism that I had already decided what I thought of Mary Kay and anyone who would get involved, before I even met Paula. Traitor. Enemy. But in the end, it was infinitely more complicated. For all her problems, Paula had the strength and perseverance to pick herself up, dust herself off and start building a career that she was proud of at the age of 45. Despite all my staunch beliefs, it was more than I could say for myself at the time. I was getting paid to lie to people and tattle, and I wasn't proud of myself. I wasn't being brave and going for what I really wanted. So on what pedestal did I stand to judge her?
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