Beauty is only skin deep, so never trust anyone that tells you that you can afford to skimp on what it takes to make it stand out.”
My grandmother believed whole heartedly that there was no such thing as “natural beauty” and with the right amount of Oil of Olay, a cart full of drug store cosmetics and a good set of false eye lashes, almost anyone could be pretty. As a personal mantra, she repeated this so often throughout my childhood that it is now presently ingrained in my psyche. She not only truly believed this; she lived her life as an homage to those beliefs that were held most dear. She dressed in feather boas all afternoon and wore heels until her head hit the pillow at night. Her eyelashes were thick and black and I didn’t realize fake until I saw one land on her cheek.
Despite the fashion trends that came and went, she liked to wear her hair as big and as full as the laws of gravity and physics would allow. She said it made her closer to Jesus and her hips look smaller. Once a week, my mom would pick her up and they would drive to the beauty parlor and get their hair done. She was never one to drive because she said she was too easily distracted and couldn’t be held responsible should anyone wander too close to her side of the sidewalk.
After a full day at the salon, to prevent her newly coiffed curls from budging, she slept with her head wrapped in toilet paper. As a kid, I tried this once, just because it seemed sort of glamorous, but kept waking up with bits of Charmin stuck in my mouth and a terrible crick in my neck.
Off to the side of her living room, tucked inside a converted closet was her bathroom. In there were glass bottles with colored liquid that sparkled if you held them up to the sun and tiny jars of cream that smelled like rose petals. Palettes of makeup lined mirrored shelves in all sorts of shades from deep purple to emerald green and everything in between. Wigs and hairpieces set on tiny Styrofoam heads on the top of her vanity and with their drawn-on eyes, they would stare at me, following me around the room until I left.
My grandmother passed away fifteen years ago, but I still remember everything about her. I remember how she smelled and the way she walked into a room. Her scent was like soft vanilla musk and she carried herself like royalty. She would flit and flutter in and out of crowded rooms while making everyone feel that they were the solitary reason that she was there. This was her unique gift. This was the small microcosm in which I grew and thrived ever mindful of the lessons taught to me by an aging southern belle that seemed contentedly stuck in an era no longer appreciated.
On Fridays, I leave the office for my extended lunch to have my tan sprayed on, a massage and yes, my hair done in preparation for an expected party, a planned lunch and Sunday brunch with friends.
Some might find my rituals just as foreign and unnecessary as my grandmother’s. Still undeterred, I sweat and swear everyday at the gym trying to hold onto a belief that a stomach can remain as flat as a skinny sixteen year olds providing you do enough sit ups. I refuse to give in to gravity just because some say that it is a physical law.
Sometimes I listen to what those people say and their words ring in my ear as loud as a fog horn on a summer’s morning. In those moments I may look at the reflection staring back at me and think that I am fighting a great war. Only this time cannons and bayonets have been replaced with creams and botox. For a moment I think about taking their advice and suddenly I hear the mantra of my grandmother and I am once again 6 years old watching her meticulously apply her lip stick.
While there is a certain logic in banks, I prefer to have my money where I can see it; on my face and hanging behind my closet doors…and that’s just what my grandmother would have wanted.
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