"Do you know what collagen is?!?"

The saleswoman at the Ala Moana Center kiosk was a minor menace when she beckoned me to experience her anti-aging creams, but then she nuked me with that follow-up when I kept on walking.

I mean, what the ...

Suddenly, it felt like I had COLLAGEN CANDIDATE tattooed across the crow's feet emerging on my face.

I took it in stride. I didn't race over to Neiman Marcus to buy the latest placenta-extract cream whose manufacturer promises me a flawless, ageless complexion, with a roll call of face-frozen Hollywood clients who swear by it.

But I've got to admit, a careless comment like that never used to bother me, either.

I don't want to live in fear of getting older. I'd like to think I can charge into those years without a care: Do my yoga, eat well and maintain this body as best I can, and let the rest of the nonsense go.

But an advertising dervish insists I'm turning into an old hag, that if I start forking over thousands of dollars for the right products and treatments, I can live the miracle of rejuvenated skin. (Cue soft lights and angelic choir.)

At 25, I could ignore it. But at 35, I'm a little vulnerable. And I know it's a creeping vulnerability that only gets more potent as the number climbs — that is, until you hit that wall where you just don't care about it anymore. I'm kinda looking forward to that.

I don't need to stop the march of time, I just want some peace. And I'm not giving up filmed entertainment or my Vanity Fair magazine, so I don't want to hear that if I don't like the message, I should turn it off or look elsewhere.

This time, I think the other side should budge. The beauty industry needs to take a happy pill.

I saw a commercial — don't ask me which, they're all a blur to me — in which a downcast woman wandered through a blue world of restaurants and theaters with this pinprick spotlight fixed on her face. She was unable to engage with friends and her lover because of this, her monumental shame: Her first age spot. The horror.

Never mind that it would take a strobe-lit disco ball to illuminate the many sunspots and moles on me. Hey, price of living here, happily paid.

C'mon, beauty industry — lighten up, already! I know fear sells, but doesn't indulgence sell, too? Can't it be about cascading waterfalls of coconut milk soothing our tan lines? Can't we export those old Herbal Essences commercials to some other products and help women reach new peaks of ecstacy? Can't all the beauty-product manufacturers have a summit and agree to follow Dove's Real Beauty model, so women are showered with messages of self-esteem, regardless of shape and age?

Or, at least, would someone please can that woman who's barking about collagen at Ala Moana?

Reach Christine Strobel at cstrobel@honoluluadvertiser.com.