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Holistic Living
Making Up
by Patricia Alfano
“You can take no credit for beauty at 16. But if you are beautiful at 60, it will be your soul’s own doing.” – Marie Stopes
There I was, about to get a free makeover in the dermatologist’s office. I’m not sure exactly what I needed to have made over, but since it was free, I decided to take another shot at rearranging my looks.
I don’t know when it started, but for most of my life, I have met my reflection in the mirror with disgust. Perhaps it was growing up in a neighborhood where my dark hair, olive skin and Mediterranean features were unacceptable. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t wish for some fairy godmother or plastic surgeon to wave a magic wand (or scalpel) and transform me into a blond-haired, blue-eyed, pug-nosed Cinderella.
Pacing around the crowded doctor’s office, I did an invisible dance to the hypnotic tune of the ten percent discount on makeup that I thought would give me more confidence. As I wandered around, I gazed at the other women who were also patiently waiting to buy the hype that this billion-dollar industry would somehow provide us with all the attributes we needed to get along in life.
Desperate for a cosmetic answer to society’s obsession with the youth-and-beauty culture, wallets yawned open and cash flowed like Vegas Night at the local casino. Elixirs that would firm, smooth, polish, protect and do everything short of producing an orgasm flew off a well-stocked shelf. Intellectually, I saw through the ruse. Emotionally, I had the hope of a Titanic survivor on a lifeboat that I would be transformed into the image I pictured in my mind.
When it was my turn in the chair, I nervously launched into the self-depreciating humor that always seemed to get me through my bouts of low self-esteem. “Let’s put some lipstick on this pig and parade her around,” I said loudly and with a twang. My attempt to lighten the situation was met with expressionless stares—apparently frozen with Botox. I couldn’t tell if everyone was laughing hysterically, or totally shocked at my crass performance in uppity La Jolla, CA.
The makeup artist, a young, beautiful girl whose face was naturally stunning, approached me with her arsenal. She began madly wielding brushes, paints and powders; explaining to me how this “mineral” makeup would miraculously transform my skin into a show-stopping piece of work. The key, she said, was in the “layering” or piling of one product on top of another – similar to the stratigraphy in a geologic formation. For a mere $1,500, I could buy this “system” and layer myself into nirvana.
Had I not recently gone through a traumatic experience in my life, I might have paid the price.
A few months earlier, my mother had died. Grief-stricken, I sought counseling to get my life back on track. During the course of my healing, the toxic strata of my self-esteem were penetrated, revealing an inner core that transcended the notion of physical beauty. Slowly and painfully, I was made to look at what lay beneath my skin. And fix it.
As my drowned self-image, which I had given up for dead, coughed and took a huge gasp for air, my focus began to shift from my pores to an inner sanctum of peace, and then outward to the world around me. I discovered that I could find my place in the universe without having to compare my worth to anyone else.
But the desire to be attractive is an addiction. So there I sat, with a plastic cape draped around my neck, taking just one more little hit for old times’ sake.
When the esthetician completed my facial canvas, she handed me a mirror to assess the improvement. I took it and stared at the sight of the painted lady looking back at me. A smile formed on my red-stained lips as I saw beyond the image—beyond the illusion to what is real.
In that reflection, I glimpsed at my soul. And it was beautiful.
Patricia Alfano is a writer who lives in Ocean Beach, CA and works for a local university. Visit her website at www.bohemianopus.com or contact her at pat_alfano@hotmail.com.