For nearly a year, my stay-at-home wardrobe has been a t-shirt and stretch waistband leggings. My face matched the unfussy comfort of my clothing. Pre-pandemic, its valentine shape had daily been enhanced with at least 10 small tubes, pots, and brushes of various shades. But when masks became mandated, I elected to leave the part uncovered also muted, with wrinkles and natural shadings, including under eye pouches.
Because I wore a mask and large spectacles every day, I figured who would see my face? The only person to view me in my natural stage, sans mask, was me when I looked into the mirror, and my dog who seemed to have no objection.
Oh there were Zoom gatherings where others could presumably see my face, but because the lighting behind me renders me obscure, no one has noticed or remarked.
But I decided to gussy up for my two vaccine appointments. I figured that if I looked a little better than all of us oldies in the preferred group, I might win some empathy or praise from the vaccine shooter.
On the morning of both appointments, I retrieved makeup from their bathroom drawer, shaking and waking them from nearly a year of slumber.
When I checked myself in the mirror to see the new/old me, I realized I looked so much better than my daily visage had been sending back to me. I could even imagine my long-deceased mother, a beauty in her lifetime, smiling and saying, "Now isn't that better?"
But it wasn't my own assessment of my improved appearance that has sent me back to reapplying the full drawer of makeup; it was a photo taken at the scene of my vaccines.
While waiting the required 15 minutes post vaccination, I wanted to send a text to my adult children alerting them that I was on my way to full protection. But a picture is worth 1,000 words, right? So when a volunteer strolled through our space, I asked if she would do the deed with my iPhone. She obliged, I sent it off, and my relieved kids responded with gratitude.
I am a fan of Facebook, so naturally I posted this photo of me masked with a small circular bandage on my tattooed bicep. Hundreds of friends have reacted positively to this image. Was it my accompanying comment, praying for all to get the shot that lured attention? Perhaps the old lady with tattoo drew interest? Or was it that even with the mask and eyeglasses, I looked damn good?
I could hear my mother's voice as I peered at the picture. "What did I tell you?" she would have been saying. "A little lipstick, mascara, blush; would it kill you to do this every day?"
Mom was indeed a beautiful woman, who it is rumored to have attracted additional customers to our mom-and-pop grocery store. And as I reminisce over those days, I understand that her pleading with me to think Max Factor, was for my own good.
Her marriage to my father, which lasted 23 years until his death, was an unhappy one. Perhaps as the prettiest one of four sisters, she envisioned a life different than the one she led: living in a three-room flat above our store, wearing an apron and adding up sales on a paper bag, and living with a diabetic husband who she believed was killing himself with three packs of cigarettes a day and a diet of the deli case of "Irv's Finer Foods."
I think that her chiding of me, from childhood to adult --to stand up straight, comb my hair, and be as attractive as possible -- would shoo me from a life similar to hers, would instead send me to the arms of a doctor or lawyer, would find me in a suburban house, rather than our cramped apartment.
And maybe Mom was right. Perhaps my prettied up face even swayed the nurse administering my shot. Could she have thought, I hope I look as good as she at her age? It's more likely that her gentleness with the poke was given unbiased to all.
So now, persuaded by the memory of my mother, along with the many friends on Facebook who Liked and Loved, each morning, after shower, even though it will be only me and my dog seeing the full face, I obediently apply the lotion, foundation, rouge, mascara, and lipstick.
"You're right, Mom, it is better," I say to her wisdom.
.
