KISS and Makeup

Makeup and I had a dysfunctional relationship. We’d start out on a date cordially enough, a dab of foundation, a whisper of blush, a hint of eye shadow. About an hour into the date, in a Jeykell/Hyde style transformation, Makeup would start doing impressions of Heath Ledger in his role as the Joker. The whole point of cosmetics is to look more attractive. Makeup wasn’t holding up its end of the contract. Like any sensible modern woman in an abusive situation, I broke it off. This wasn’t much of a sacrifice until recently, when I noticed I now look like an extra in a zombie movie even without Makeup.

My first public appearance as a author is tomorrow. In honor of the occasion, I decided to give Makeup one last chance. I poddled out to cosmetics counter at the local department store and heaved my backside up onto the makeover stool. Instantly, I was reminded of the last time my derriere hit a similar stool. Because I’m a little pressed for time this week, I’m resurrecting the original description of that debacle from a now defunct blog.

*

In 2003, I had a day to kill in Manhattan while waiting for a flight out to St. John’s, Newfoundland. It was the last week in June. The temperature was ninety-five degrees, the humidity eighty percent. Passing Saks Fifth Avenue, I decided to nip in and pretend I had enough money to shop there while taking advantage of their subarctic air conditioning. Just inside the door, a young man in a lavender shirt and cream slacks accosted me, smiling so broadly and brightly I had to fight the urge to put my sunglasses back on.

“How would you like a free make over?” he asked.

Just my luck. I hadn’t made it three feet into the store and my nefarious plan to steal frigidity had been exposed. I told him I’d love a makeover but couldn’t really afford to buy any of the products he was going to try to sell me.

“No, no!” he protested. “You don’t have to buy anything. Just sit over here in the window and let me make you up.”

“Like an animated window display?”

“Exactly.”

“And I don’t have to buy anything?”

“Pinky swear.” He was the kind of young man who could say something like that with a straight face.

It seemed as good a way as any to spend half an hour. Certainly better than walking around the store looking at things I couldn’t afford. I plunked my butt down on the tall pink stool in the window. The young man asked me to remove my glasses and used a thumb and forefinger grip on my chin to tip my face from side to side.

“Day or evening?” he asked

I figured I could afford a jar of makeup remover pads. “What the hell. Evening.”

His name was Rico. We chatted amicably about the weather, his new apartment and his bitch of an ex who’d made finding a new apartment necessary, while he cleansed, exfoliated, toned and moisturized with two kinds of cream and something that smelled suspiciously like Preparation-H.

He fell silent when the real work began with the attaching and curling of the false eyelashes. Concentration furrowed his brow as he selected concealer, foundation, eye shadow, mascara, blush, lipstick, lip liner, powder, highlighter, cheek gloss and lip gloss. He smeared and dabbed and brushed for about twenty minutes while a small crowd of women formed outside the window to watch him work with increasingly awed expressions. When there was nothing left to brush or dab or smear, he stood back and held out a hand mirror.

“Well, what do you think?”

It was a miracle. The face in the mirror looked gorgeous, glamorous, sexy - nothing like me. “Wow!” I exclaimed. “You are a seriously good at your job.”

He grinned without the least hint of modesty. “You got that right, honey.”

I thanked him profusely and climbed off the stool. A lineup of women had formed in the entry to the display window, waiting for their own miracle makeover. They complimented me as I walked past them. I strode out onto the streets of Manhattan with an extra spring in my step, feeling like a new woman, a beautiful woman, a woman who was ready for any adventure.

I had a wonderful day, albeit a tad myopic due to my unwillingness to put on my glasses and ruin the effect of Rico’s art.

I accidentally joined the Gay Pride Parade when a group of celebrators shoved me into the path of a marcher wearing silver studded leather straps and not much else. I had to walk with him a block or so before making my escape through a gap in the spectators lining the streets.

I got into a shouting match with a fat man wearing a powder blue ball gown complete with tiara, who thought I was trying to steal empty beer cans and bottles from his shopping cart.

I bought lunch from a street vendor and took it into Central Park, where I was mugged by a squirrel for my hot dog (yes, I thought squirrels were herbivores as well) so I bought another hotdog and sat down on the steps of the American Museum of Natural History where I had an entertaining conversation with an intense, middle-aged man wearing a faded grey t-shirt sporting Gerry Garcia’s face on the front and the slogan I SEE DEAD PEOPLE on the back, who mistakenly thought I shared his passion for gruesome rock lyrics.

I walked around Manhattan all afternoon, had fabulous Coquilles St. Jacques at a French restaurant for dinner and arrived back at my hotel late that night, tired and happy - until I caught sight of my face in the mirror lined elevator.

One of my eyelashes had gone AWOL. The other drooped precariously. Sweat had carved pale runnels into the caked remains of foundation, rouge and powder on my cheeks. Smudged mascara blackened both eyes. Of my lipstick, only hints of scarlet that had bled into the lines around my lips remained.

New York City is the only city on earth where I can wear makeup. There, it is possible to walk around an entire day looking like a KISS groupie on a bender and blend right in.