When I was little I would watch my mother get ready for the day. I often perched on the cold marble of the bathroom sink and, although I swear I was better seen than heard, I’m sure my mom would describe me in perfect chatterbox form. I was really such a chatty Kathy growing up—everything from know-it-all status to a delinquent fondness for talking back--for which I was rewarded with many mouthfuls of Dial soap. To this day I can’t use Dial for that reason. But even if my mom may not remember these mornings in quite such an optimistic light, I really liked them. The steam would billow through the shower and create those condensation droplets on the marble and the mirror. Sometimes I would drag my finger through it and write her messages. I like to think they were clever little Haikus or limericks but I think the standard “I love you Mom” might have been the best I ever conjured up.
She always showered in the dark for some reason I’ll never quite understand—still does in fact—and then when she stepped out of the shower she used this Crabtree and Evelyn body powder called Summertime. It was in a granny shaker—really it was—all floral looking with loopy cursive. When I was a teenager I crinkled my nose at such a fluffy and functionless powder all wrapped up in old person’s wrapping. Now I think it’s beautiful. Isn’t that the way it always goes? Now I cherish things like the vintage rocking chair that I acquired a few years ago and that Boyd has been working on sanding for my birthday which was, wait, in February? That’s okay, I still love him. And part of me kind of loves the fact that it still isn’t finished. I can’t really say why. Now I’m debating whether we should really be re-staining it at all.
After the body powder came the round woven basket of makeup. Whenever she’d put on her blush I would get some too—that was probably my favorite part. She had that blush for I think about a decade. But seriously, do you ever run out of blush? I know I haven’t yet. Well the end of that blush was when I went in her bathroom around the age of 16 to try on all of her makeup before she came home from work. I think prom was about 2 weeks away and my cover girl just wasn’t cutting it. Her Clinique “Breathless Berry” was guaranteed to make me more beautiful than my cover girl cheekers, “pink.” Seriously? Don’t they pay someone to come up with names for make-up? Clearly not enough. Anyways, I fumbled with the breathless berry, and it came crashing down onto the whiter than white tile my mom swore was practical. And, of course, being more than 10 years old, the blush cake shattered into about a hundred pieces. Which I put back into the little snap case and quietly stowed away. I didn’t even have the guts to admit I had broken it when she came asking the next day.
Just the other day I noticed that whenever I look in a mirror I put my tongue just up to the insides of my lips to make them look fuller (I guess us Dahl girls weren’t exactly blessed with the Angelina Jolie lip pout) and I realized just how much I look like my mom. She actually does this little lip-plumping exercise too, although she'll probably deny it. People always said we were twin growing up, but I never saw it because, well, I have blond hair and she has dark brown hair. We obviously couldn't have looked alike. But we do, it’s undeniable. Now that I have just the finest of lines around the corners of my eyes and my baby fat is all but gone off my face I see it. I see the skin so white it’s almost translucent and the occasional tiny capillary running through it. I see the dark sun spots that so easily mark how old we are. I see the hazel eyes I used to think were an ugly pea green, all speckled and frog-like, now deep and earthy and prettily freckled. I see the lashes so long it looks like I’m wearing fake ones every time I put on mascara and know that mom blessed me with those beauties. And now when I get ready for the day, and fog up the mirror, and powder up, and put on a blush that’s actually my color, I see that I am beautiful, just like my mother is beautiful. And I thank my lucky stars that it was never on the outside that counted anyways.
2 comments:
What a good story, and well told. Thanks for posting this.
That was beautiful. You are beautiful. Does Boyd sit on the counter and watch you get ready for the day? No? I guess you'll have to wait for a daughter of your own for that. Mine does it, although she looks just like her dad, not me :)
I remember EXACTLY the image of the face you make at yourself in the mirror while you are getting ready. I see it clearly in my mind as if we were roommates yesterday. Now I know where you get it.
Post a Comment