askyermom

I grew up thinking that having a vanity was routine. My grandmother (the bookkeeper, not the secretary) had a desk at home as her part-time vanity. Every day, she pulled out a Hollywood-style lighted mirror to put on her makeup. There was a magnifier to perfect the bright red lipstick and verify the curl of her eyelashes, every last one. When she was ready to leave, the mirror was unplugged and tucked away and the tools whooshed into a drawer with a puff of scented powder in the air.

My own mother never fussed, she had a mascara in the medicine cabinet and a random sample lipstick in her purse some of the time. She was distressingly beautiful and she never got over it. A real rebel, she never seemed to mourn her lost beauty, but stubbornly believed in it and its weird power. Much like the tall person who never feels the need to look up at things, they are set for life.

I have seen a few private rooms devoted to vanity, boasting enough supplies for a full make-up counter. (Make-up counters were a feature of department stores that are largely extinct. Now we usually have make-up stores full of people who continually ask if we are okay, which is meant to remind us not to get too comfortable or to steal any vials of whatever). In most homes it’s a more compact story: beauty is a burden on lady bathrooms, which have to contain the hairdryers, potions and mystery tools. Spatters of color become part of the decor, more living art.

It felt decadent when I first set up a vanity in a walk-in closet, and now I have the same piece of furniture serving in the walk-in closet I call my bedroom. It’s a low child’s desk, perfect for the purpose, originally built by my double-great grandfather (on the mailman side). It has a terrible coat of avocado paint, a sort of streaky glaze finish that was trendy in 1972. The layer under that is stained dark walnut and the actual wood is certainly oak. I treasure it beyond reason.

If his daughters were born before 1900, and grandpa Heller was definitely dead by 1924, the little desk was built more than 100 years ago. He was probably a nice man. His daughters were kind although his wife was not.

Kindness is sometimes seen as a recessive gene, stamped out over the generations of mean people, but I think the opposite is true. Kindness endures while all the grift and greed are worn away like ill-chosen eye shadow.

I think this nice grandpa is gratified to know that I am using his creation every day. He probably would be more gratified if I was sitting there studying a German Bible, but somehow, my imaginary ancestor understands perfectly the need we have, dabbing junk on our faces for a little boost of courage to face the day.

Grammy called it warpaint, but I like to think of it as love paint.

Sure, vanity is futile and hollow, but vanity is also merely a nice little wink and a kiss. If our lipstick gives us the nerve to speak up when most needed, it’s frivolity well spent.

Love,
yermom

Would ya believe it!! I caved into the tide and set up a substack. It’s going to be the parenting essays, so this little nugget is unlikely to be there, but if you want to subscribe, you get a chance at a free hardback copy of DON’T EAT YOUR CHILDREN!! It is coming out in November, finally. The sign-up is here: https://askyermom.substack.com/DEYCFREE. You’ll get a chance for each month you subscribe, so even better for you if I get behind schedule!!