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I Never Saw My Mother Without Makeup
My mother slept in her makeup. It was probably awful for her complexion, but I don’t know since I never saw her without a thick layer of foundation.
She spent hours in the bathroom each day, styling her bleached blonde hair and applying makeup. My mother had bangs because she said her forehead was too big. Thinly plucked brows accented her eyes, which were layered in blue shadow, liquid liner, and multiple coats of mascara.
I don’t remember what shade of lipstick she wore, but she hated gloss. My mother preferred thick, creamy lip color from brands such as Estee Lauder and Clinique. We lived below the poverty line and couldn’t afford high-end cosmetics, but they were freebies from my late grandmother. Grandma worked at Famous-Barr, a fancy department store that was eventually replaced by Macy’s.
“I don’t know why all these guys like Missy,” my mother once confided in a family member. “She’s not even that pretty.”
I learned at a young age that if you weren’t beautiful, you weren’t worthy of love. My father placed less of an emphasis on looks, though he still had my mother take me to the orthodontist.
