Reflecting on Mother: A Kiss and Make-up

When I was a little girl I spent hours watching my mother apply her make-up. She had a special table just for the purpose with neatly arranged containers in an array of glorious colors. In the center was a round mirror framed with ball-shaped light bulbs that reminded me of those found in a star’s dressing room.

Each morning she would go through a ritual of applying her tasteful, yet elegant daytime face, and I would sit on the bed, my short legs swinging off the side, fascinated with this grown-up ritual that seemed an integral part of being a woman. I would hold my breath, afraid that any noise would alert her to my presence and break the spell of the ceremony.

On the nights that she and my father went out, the make-up became more dramatic and glamorous. She would sit there in her slip with her hair in curlers and begin the transformation. Her pale, olive, monochromatic face would magically grow contours. Vibrant peach colors would bring out the hazel of her eyes.

When her make-up was done she would slip into the silk, mandarin-collared dress she had sewn from elegantly embroidered fabric my father had brought back from the Orient. Then she would unwind her dark, short, curly hair from the confines of the pink foam curlers, brush out her stylish poodle cut and, when she was satisfied with its arrangement, she would spray it with a mist of Aqua Net.

Finally, she would slip on her sensible but elegant high heels and grab her coordinated satin handbag. I would always follow them to the door when they left. Mom would leave me with a kiss on the cheek and in a cloud of Chanel No. 5.

Sometimes I would sneak into her room and sit at her table, running my hands over the rainbow of colors, twisting out the tubes of frosted 1960’s lipstick, testing the colors on my own skin - a map for the future and the woman I was to become. I would apply her foundation, and since the color was geared towards her olive Puerto Rican skin tone, it would appear as war paint on the ghostly Irish skin I’d inherited from my paternal grandmother.

Article Author: Ann Hagman Cardinal

Ann Hagman Cardinal is a freelance writer as well as the Marketing Director for Vermont Collge of Fine Arts. Her first novel, Sister Chicas--co-authored with two other Latina writers—was released in 2006 by NAL/Penguin Books. …

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