Efforts to beautify Russian women backfire after citizens grow leery of Avon saleswomen knocking on their doors.
Fifty-two year old, Ana Skavorsky was washing potatoes when there came a knock at the door. There, a woman wearing a double-breasted suit similar to communist uniforms, presented the resident with a satin briefcase full of cosmetics.
Skavorsky claims the Avon saleswoman—the first person to knock on her front door in 25 years—talked incessantly about makeup products and kept opening up bottles of lipstick to test the color against her skin.
“I know there was poison on the lipstick, but she maneuvered so quickly, I didn’t know what to do.” Skavorsky said.
Before Skavorsky could call for help, her fear reached a state of panic and she fainted in the doorway.
When the tenant regained consciousness a few minutes later, the saleswoman was gone.
“There was something about her smile,” Skarvosky said dabbing her forehead with a hankerchief. “Now, all I can see is that smile.”
Avon saleswomen appeared at 30 other front doors in the neighborhood that day to commence what the company’s Russian correspondent Ivanka Welterhadt calls “The Birth of Beauty,” in a city where most women are pale and thin from sunless winters and diets of bread and cheese.
But depite these efforts to pep up the population, most residents see the new practice as nothing more than a government conspiracy, and fear is rivetting the suburbs of Moscow where these Avon saleswomen are being bred.
Resident Igor Zhirinovski lives near the Avon factory and sees the women marching down the street early in the morning.
“It starts with makeup, then the next thing you know, you wake up in a body bag.” Zhirinovski said quickly locking his front door.
But Welterhadt remains optomistic about the company’s success and hopes residents’ fears will die down before the residents do.
Fifty-two year old, Ana Skavorsky was washing potatoes when there came a knock at the door. There, a woman wearing a double-breasted suit similar to communist uniforms, presented the resident with a satin briefcase full of cosmetics.
Skavorsky claims the Avon saleswoman—the first person to knock on her front door in 25 years—talked incessantly about makeup products and kept opening up bottles of lipstick to test the color against her skin.
“I know there was poison on the lipstick, but she maneuvered so quickly, I didn’t know what to do.” Skavorsky said.
Before Skavorsky could call for help, her fear reached a state of panic and she fainted in the doorway.
When the tenant regained consciousness a few minutes later, the saleswoman was gone.
“There was something about her smile,” Skarvosky said dabbing her forehead with a hankerchief. “Now, all I can see is that smile.”
Avon saleswomen appeared at 30 other front doors in the neighborhood that day to commence what the company’s Russian correspondent Ivanka Welterhadt calls “The Birth of Beauty,” in a city where most women are pale and thin from sunless winters and diets of bread and cheese.
But depite these efforts to pep up the population, most residents see the new practice as nothing more than a government conspiracy, and fear is rivetting the suburbs of Moscow where these Avon saleswomen are being bred.
Resident Igor Zhirinovski lives near the Avon factory and sees the women marching down the street early in the morning.
“It starts with makeup, then the next thing you know, you wake up in a body bag.” Zhirinovski said quickly locking his front door.
But Welterhadt remains optomistic about the company’s success and hopes residents’ fears will die down before the residents do.
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