Whether my mother was going to the grocery store or a night on the town, she was always perfectly polished and impossibly fashionable. From a very young age, she inspired in me a reverent love of fashion. While other parents were pointing out the colours of animals in picture books, my mom was pointing out the new fall tones in Vogue (can you spell s.t.u.n.n.i.n.g?). I remember sitting on her bathroom counter as a little girl watching her get ready for a Saturday night, in awe of her confidence and careful makeup artistry. While I always thought my mother glamorous, I nevertheless ended up on the opposite end of the clothing spectrum from her. Where my mom was daringly chic, I was conservatively preppy. She wore form fitting clothes, glittering jewellery and turned heads. I have a love affair with sweater vests and have never ventured past white pearls. I don’t think anyone is craning their neck to get a better look at me.
My mother would beg me, plead with me, to trade my Lisa Loeb glasses for contacts, chemically straighten my curly hair and do away with, what she termed, my “Anne Frank cardigans.” But my refusal to wear matchstick pants, my rebuffing of hair bleach and my loyalty to argyle, though maddening to her, did not distress her as much as my lack of lipstick. Lipstick to my mother was not just a decorative accessory, an ornament of the fashionable; it was a way of life. My mother wholeheartedly believed that all of life’s problems could be solved with the purchase of a fresh lipstick. Any bad day could be calmed with a new shimmery gloss and something like a divorce, well, that called for some thing big, like Mac Viva Glam. My preference for lip balm wasn’t just offensive to her, but led her to question my coping mechanisms. When I would call her from university stressed and seeking maternal guidance, to my further frustration, my mother would instruct me to dress myself up, get out of my apartment and put on some “God damn lipstick.” Always the rebel, I usually opted for sweatpants, cookie-dough ice cream and Keats’ poems.
Finding myself with a bout of melancholy as of late that no amount of cliché verses or moping around the house in my pyjamas could shake, I suddenly felt compelled to test my mother’s theory. Feeling that my despondency required some serious intervention, I stood at the makeup counter after work and with much trepidation, finally bought a deep, Betty Draper red, lipstick.
I was looking forward to my best friend’s engagement party that weekend and what better place to try out my new look? Getting ready to leave for the party I stood in front of the mirror, as my mother had, in stiff lipstick application position and carefully smoothed the colour across my virgin lips. I looked uncomfortable. Unable to stop rubbing my lips and dabbing at the corners, I continued to fuss in the rear-view mirror as my annoyed husband assured me that it looked “fine.” Fine, of course being every woman’s favourite complement.
Though feeling outrageously self-conscious, as I walked into the party I convinced myself that I could do it. I could rock bright red lipstick. I could. Elated to see my friend glowing with betrothed bliss, I was quickly distracted from my insecure worrying. As we posed together for a picture, however, Sarit suddenly looked at me, concerned. I assured her that her outfit was stunning and her side chignon was perfectly in place.
“It’s not that,” she said. While her lips were perfectly pouty, it seemed that my rockin red lipstick was all over my teeth. And my dress. And my husband’s collar. I wiped furiously but each “is it gone?” was met with a “no, you’re making it worse.” I was ill at ease, nervous to smile and reveal my ruby red teeth. What was I thinking?! Did I honestly think that something as trivial as lipstick was going to stifle my worries? I just can’t be something I’m not. It’s back to Burt’s Bees for me.
Despite intense scrubbing, my hands continued to look vaguely stained with red for a further twenty-four hours but each time I noticed the faint garnet streaks I smiled, thinking of my brief cosmetic foray. I continued to smile as it reminded me of my friend’s sheer palpable excitement for her forthcoming nuptials. My sheepish smile quickly turned into a giggle, which eventually turned into a full fledged laugh. Looking at my hands with a smattering of red, I laughed harder than I had in a long time.
So I guess I owe my mother an apology. It seems lipstick can lift your spirits after all. Next time though, I think I will start with a much more subtle nude.
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