High up on a shelf of the closet in the bathroom, my mother kept a big plastic bin of all the makeup that hadn't worked out for her. It was bigger than a shoebox, and it was always full to the brim.
People often say my mother and I look alike, but one of the main differences is our skin-tone. She is deeply golden and I am peachy-pink.
Makeup that didn't work out for her might be a good match for me.
In theory, at least.
One fine Saturday, my cousin and hero Sarah--two years older and infinitely more mature-- came over to play. I had plenty of cousins exactly my own age, one of whom was her younger brother. Naturally, this meant we were all lumped together into the pest category, which was understandable given her sophistication and our penchant for climbing trees. This opportunity to hang out (as she'd called it) was an unexpected treat.
I'd like to think we were 8 and 10 at the time, but we were probably closer to 12 and 14.
When my mom offered up her makeup box for our entertainment, Sarah and I were ecstatic. We set the box between us on the counter in the upstairs bathroom and leaned toward the mirror, applying in the silence of deep concentration.
We worked like this for hours.
Or at least that's how it felt.
At last it was time to step back and reveal our handiwork.
We faced each other and gasped.
She looked beautiful, as though she'd just stepped out from the pages of a teen magazine. And me? I looked like Bozo the Clown. By design.
Wasn't that what we were doing? Playing with makeup?
Not much has changed in the last twenty-ish years. I still feel like a clown when I wear makeup, so I seldom do. Even then, it's usually just mascara and chapstick.
I can't escape the feeling that makeup misleads. How can you know me if I'm hidden beneath a layer of mass-production made to mimic my own skin tones?
I couldn't laugh until I cried or step out into the rain if I had to avoid making the eyeliner run, and my smile wouldn't be sincere and spontaneous if I had to worry about lipstick on my teeth.
I don't ever wear makeup either. And when I do, its mascara and chapstick much like you.
ReplyDeleteThat was one of the things that was a transition for Mimi when she got here-she came in, put her stuff on the counter announced that SHE wears makeup to SCHOOL (almost challenging me about it) and asked where all of my makeup was. I said that I didn't have any, because I don't wear it. I let her wear it to school for the first few days to observe her technique, and after she demonstrated that she looked somewhere between whore and raccoon, she was instructed to stop wearing makeup.
I'm also thinking of all the ladies of the Deep South who feel they can't go to the store without putting on a full compliment of makeup and fixing their hair just so. I just don't get it...