MAKEUP AND ME

on special occasions

It’s never been a lot of makeup—just a little around the eyes, maybe a touch of lipstick. I just wanted to look nice for special occasions.

Photo by Clay Lindner on Unsplash

I put on the red dress my sister had given me—a plain knit ending above the knee with a wide, black patent leather belt. When my first husband opened the door that late October evening, his grim expression made me wonder if he might not be able to afford the special dinner out he’d planned. In the elevator going up to Seattle’s Space Needle’s revolving dining room, I urged him to tell me what was wrong. We were new and I hadn’t yet experienced his bouts of internal combustion. “What’s going on? Please talk to me,” I said. The mirrored elevator imploded. “I hate makeup,” he said, his teeth like vice grips.

Once we’d been shown to our table, I went to the ladies’ room and washed my face.

A few years later, my new man and I were preparing for an evening soiree. I wore a black, crystal-pleated skirt, matching bat-wing blouse, and patent leather pumps. I lined my eyes with kohl, applied a little mascara, and a soft pink lipstick. When I presented myself, my soon-to-be husband number two stared as though he’d never seen me before. I preened, waiting for his mouth to close, preferably around words of wonder and delight.

He was a different sort of man than husband number one; rarely expressing emotion, opinions, or asking questions. On this occasion, that early December evening, he asked, “Is that makeup you’re wearing?”

“Yes,” I said, attempting to assess his tone. “Do you like it?”

The shake of his head was slight but assuredly woeful.

I had to kick off my pumps. I hadn’t worn them in a year and my feet had somehow grown. And then I washed my face.

Photo by Nora Hutton on Unsplash

My son will be twenty-eight next month. He was a late gift in my life. To honour my newly published debut novel, he and his partner invited me to dinner at the new Japanese grill in town.

As we laid strips of thinly sliced beef and tiny salmon filets over the hot copper grate, he looked across the table at me and asked, “Are you wearing makeup?”

Oh no, I thought. I just wanted to look nice. “Just a little eyeliner and mascara,” I said. “Oh, and a bit of eyeshadow.” Creamy white on the lids, a little light brown on the brow bone. He didn’t need to know about the lipstick—I’d probably already eaten it all off.

He shook his head.

Here it comes.

“And you’re going to be seventy soon?”

I’ve shamed him. I must look gaudy—an old woman trying too hard. I nodded. “In another month.” I poked a piece of dragon roll with my chopstick.

His sweetheart nudged him. She wears her makeup tastefully, accenting her best features without overt drama. Subtle. Pretty. I considered enlisting her counsel. I considered going to wash my face.

He squinted. “You look the same,” he said.

“The same?”

“You always look the same to me. You could be—how old were you when you had me?”

“Forty-two. I had my forty-second birthday and a week later, you came into the world.”

“Yeah. Forty-two. You don’t seem to age.”

Because I didn’t want to cry and have my mascara run, I reminded him of when he was seven and angry with me. He’d gripped my arm. “Why did you wait so long to have me?” he’d demanded. “I don’t want you to die.”

He laughed. “I didn’t want you to die.”

I can’t promise him that I won’t, of course. That’s out of my hands. But having him perceive me as young may have alleviated some of his youthful fears.

The end of this story doesn’t have me washing my face. It does have me drying a few tears, however. Because although there won’t be a husband number three, I have the kindest, most loving, number one son.