My friend Kim and I came up with yet another great idea while camping last week.  

She had recently been accosted by a makeup store representative while shopping on Central Avenue in Whitefish. She was stopped by a persistent man who said he could "fix her face."  

He pointed out bags beneath her eyes and rambled about marriage, the passage of time and magic serums. 

My friend is a natural beauty and did not want to take the free sample, let alone stop for this aggressive salesman.  

She is far kinder than I in these situations. OK, in all situations. In fact, those customer-snagging salespeople lurking on the sidewalks no longer even look at me. Seems I have honed the scowl with which I was born to a frightening level. The hawkers avert their eyes. 

Or, at least, that's what I tell myself. 

"Do you know how long it's taken me to get this face?" she exclaimed over the campfire. "Years of the sun beating down on me as a fly-fishing guide. Years of being pelted by snow and windburned as a ski instructor." 

"You worked hard for that face," I chimed in. 

So-called beauty became the topic again in the morning when I relayed a story that happened at the urgent care clinic last year. I went to be seen for something minor like a splinter or a sprain. 

A med tech gathered me from the waiting room, walked me to the scale and, having had the chance to appraise me, asked, "Been camping?"  

"What?" I asked. 

"Been camping?" she repeated. 

Kim howled with laughter. 

"You know me," I said. "I always look like this."

I wear a T-shirt and jeans nearly every day and I've never used makeup. My hair is never in place, and my clothes are always accentuated with dog hair. Yes. 

"This is what my face looks like. This is what I look like. Every day," I said and gestured to my face and body, Vanna White style, while she continued to laugh and nod. 

Within seconds, the great idea was born — we open a spa of our own on Central Avenue, designed to make people on the sidewalk look more like us. It'll be called Huht-Spa.  

We'll welcome clients with a washcloth. The first step is to wash your face, we'll tell them. Then, they enter our small salon where there are several dogs.  

Come inside and frolic for a bit with the dogs, we'll tell them. They will likely lick your face. Dog saliva is excellent for healthy, vital skin. Their hair will get on your clothes, and your own hair will get delightfully mussed. 

We'll design and build beauty machines to produce natural effects — one with a fan that hurls frozen pellets at the client's face to replicate the red cheeks earned skiing on a blustery day, for example. 

We decided not to charge an arm and a leg for our services. Rather, we won't expect to make a profit; we'll operate as a nonprofit of sorts. The amount charged will be equal to that of a current bill we have to pay. If the electric bill is due, that'll be $89, please. Kim's car payment? $407, if you don't mind. My recent dental work? It comes to $3,376. Thank you! 

Opening day of ski season on Big Mountain is 121 days away. Are you ready to elevate your beauty with a chairlift?