The top of my mother’s vanity, with lipstick cartridges, powder tins, and tubes of mascara positioned in disciplined rows by order of their individual application, always reminded me of the prepared oral surgeon’s tool trays I would take note of in the dentist’s office. In 1939 I was only nine years old, but I can evoke mirages of my mother making-up her face as if she were here, this moment.
“Rebecca dear, now you sit upon the trunk,” she’d instruct, walking into the room with her face damp and a towel around her neck, “and give mommy a few moments to put my face on and then we’ll be off promptly.”
I’d do as instructed, and I’d sit down on the long cedar trunk that was positioned at the end of her white quite-covered bed. She was unceasing in referring to her make-up regime as putting her “face on.” An oscillating brass fan hummed low under Benny Goodman’s “Avalon,” which so often played in her bedroom. The fan kept my mother’s hair from her forehead and fought perspiration on hot afternoons while she sat in front of the long, tan art deco vanity with Bakelite handles and large, oval-shaped mirror. Her make-up régime was systematic, precise.
“Ole Max makes the best quality products Rebecca!” She’d say, pointing a tube of Max Factor’s “Blue Red” at me like an instructor’s wand. “When you get to be my age you will understand all too well the benefits of Ole Max and this lil’ camouflage wonder!”
My mother held up a red and white tin of Max Factor’s “Pancake Make-up,” the concealer and base “used by Ms. Judy Garland”… in her glory days. She spun around upon her vanity bench and pulled the towel from her neck. She dabbed her eyes and face lightly and tossed the towel on the bed behind me. She leaned into the mirror and pulled at her eyes and cheeks, examining her skin for blemishes and wrinkles. With the “Pancake Make-up” pad, she slowly wiped the concealer onto her face and buffed her skin out evenly until the skin-toned make-up was smooth and natural looking.
“Critical!” My mother said holding a can of Pond’s “Cheeks” up for acknowledgement. “This – unlike wasting your lipstick on your cheeks – will give you just the right amount of emphasize.”
She applied the rouge to her upper cheeks generously; however, the Ponds didn’t make mother look like a Napoleonic aristocrat by a long-shot; rather, the reddish hue made her face look longer and more described. She applied her eyeliner an mascara then pointed the “Blue Red” at me once again.
“The ‘icing on the cake’ Rebecca!” She held the tube of Max Factor’s red “Blue Red” lip-gloss up like a hand model from the catalogs. “I’m led to think that had it not been for this ‘lil dandy, your father would have never spoken to me at that Union Hall dance all those years ago!”
Mother turned to the mirror, leaned in close, and slowly dragged the tip of the lip-gloss across her upper lips. She peaked her lips at two points then painted her lower lip. She placed the cap on and dabbed her lips together.
“See?” She asked, “How’s it look?”
I’d tell my mother she looked absolutely picturesque! In fact, I’d often ask her if she’d allow me to wear a little.
“Well Rebecca, Your father would likely divorce me if he found that I was painting you up to look like a ‘lady of the night,’ but I suppose a ‘lil red to the cheeks and, of course, some of ole’ Max’s ‘Blue Red’ won’t hurt anyone!” She’d whisper.
To this day, I can remember the smells of the make-up, the humming of the brass fan, and soft sweetness of Benny Goodman’s clarinet. I can remember my mother, in all her glory, preparing herself for the world.
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