My Beauty Advisor
When you’re a girly-girl, it doesn’t stop when you reach a certain age.
I love makeup just as much as I did when I was twelve and bought my first Pink Cameo lipstick.
Makeup holds so much promise. The next foundation might make me glow. The right eyeliner can turn me into Elizabeth Taylor (or maybe Queen Elizabeth, but there’s always hope).
Too old for that? Ask my mother.
When I visit, we always talk about makeup and hair and fashion. My mother doesn’t go out that much anymore – the supermarket, the senior center, the hairdresser – but she reads all the magazines and watches all the talk shows on TV. She knows what’s in.
Last month, I brought over our weekly McDonalds (our big indulgence) and we talked about concealer. My mother read about some new concealer and bought it that day in Stop N Shop. She let me try it on. It was really quite nice. Sharing fast food and makeup tips. Girlfriends.
Truth is, I liked it so much, I bought some. I didn’t just happen to pick it up. I had to go to two stores to find the same shade. It’s my new favorite. (until I find something new next month.)
Two weeks ago, my mother showed me a new blush. It was a combination blush and bronzer, and it was very inexpensive. “I read about it, and it sounded perfect,” she said. And she encouraged me to try it. And it was great. It brightened my complexion just enough. I had warmth, but not a hot flash.
Only when I got home, I couldn’t remember what it was. I walked up and down at my mother’s beauty source – the cosmetics aisle at Stop N Shop, but nothing looked familiar.
So last week I brought over McDoubles and Fries – but no apple pies, since we’re ‘dieting’. We talked mostly about hair. My mother likes the hairdresser at the next chair, but she feels guilty about her regular guy. She’d like to schedule appointments on Fred’s day off, and try the other stylist. But Fred always answers the phone. I can sympathize.
Before I left for home, I went to the bathroom. And as I was washing my hands, I looked at the medicine cabinet, and I remembered that new blush. I opened the cabinet and there it was. I tried it again, and noted the name of the color.
I used to sneak into my mother’s makeup fifty years ago.
Should I be proud that she’s still stylish?
Or embarrassed that my beauty consultant is eighty-eight?