The Language of Beauty
My mother was widely acknowledged to be both extremely intelligent and very beautiful. It was generally agreed but always unspoken that I trailed behind her in the first category, and failed completely in the second. She was a strict parent who focused on doing things the right way. The type of person who never attempted anything unless they were certain of the outcome. Perfection was the only goal and she had little patience with people who made mistakes or didn’t meet her own exacting standards. This included me. Under her rule the use of make up was forbidden until I was the ‘right’ age. By the time that came around and she wanted me to ‘pretty up’ I was well practiced in the skills of resistance. I refused to dress in a feminine manner, and met any attempts to dress me in all and any shades of pink with arguments that sometimes reached screaming level.
I went in for the full color spectrum of black and aggressively pursued intellectual activities, relying on my naturally good skin and lush hair to get by in the looks department. Consequently I never learned much about make up. A trip to a beauty salon or to the hairdresser inspired the same feelings of dread as going to the dentist.
