On Beauty

Someone told someone told someone about a Mary Kay lady in our neighborhood who had just lost her husband and had two daughters, one in college and one just about to start, and I think my mom felt bad, and invited her. Which was nice, like my mom, but weird, because she doesn't wear makeup. She insisted I join and when the lady walked in, she was sad and weathered, like someone who had been batted around. Like the time there was a hurricane and when we drove to the yacht club the next morning, there was Blue Moon, off her moorings and lying in the sand, on her side. She was there, still alive, but she had had a tough evening. That's just how it is sometimes. There's a storm, things and people are damaged. I don't have any first-hand knowledge about things like this, which is why I refer to boats and not people when I speak of such things.

My mother insisted I join, and it made sense. I was 13 and girls were beginning to wear makeup to school and I was resentful of my mother because she hadn't taught me how to wear mascara and eye shadow. So the sad woman did our makeup. She probably had experience doing Church plays because she pancaked stuff on and gave my mother lavender eyeshadow. Mine was green. Fuschia lipstick. Orangey rouge. After she was done, my mother purchased a handful of products we would never use. They are still sitting on her dressing table to this day. The woman left and we both walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, horrified. We looked like transvestite hookers in an Almodovar film. Then we laughed and washed off the makeup. I understand now why my mother doesn't wear makeup. I still don't.