Out of the Mouths of Babes

In one of my previous lives, when I was a pre-school teacher, a child came up to me and asked “what is that red stuff on your face?”  Being in an environment where chaos abounded and paint was all about, I quickly assumed that during one of the children’s “artistic” moments, some must have missed the paper and landed unceremoniously on my face.  When I tried this obvious explanation, you could see the child wasn’t quite convinced. He encouraged me to look in the mirror and it was then I realized that it wasn’t paint, but blush.  After trying to enlighten him on one of the finer rights of womanhood, I attempted to justify to this particular five year old that I was wearing make-up and it was intended to make me look “better”.  He put his little hands on his hips, locked his jaw, looked me straight in the eye, shook his head and simply said “I don’t think so” and walked away.

Talk about being humbled. It was one of those split seconds in your life when you could laugh or cry.  I was too much in shock by the honesty of this little fellow to do either, so I tried wiping off the “red stuff”.  Apparently wise beyond his years, he was right on; I didn’t know it at the time but I did wear too much make-up.  Poor kid, he probably thought I was morphing into a clown.

Massive quantities of eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, foundation, rouge, etc. was the norm for the time and not out of the ordinary for females my age (or so I tried to convince myself – besides, the fashion magazines and television commercials encouraged this “look” – along with the incarnation of big hair and shoulder pads, but we won’t go to there).  I took this child’s words rather personally and forced myself to take a long hard look at my daily beauty regime.

After the initial shock of walking out of my abode without my face properly “on” and feeling that all the world was staring and secretly whispering about the nakedness of my non-made-up mug, the process of minimizing my morning routine and accepting the “natural” look actually felt good.  Not only did I cut the readiness time to minutes, but the cost of losing the Cleopatra look saved me mucho dinero – trust me, being beautiful can be very expensive.

Don’t misunderstand, I didn’t go cold turkey. I still “do”, but I now use a minimalist approach.  This has come in handy when unexpected folk stop by the house, where I may be found unadorned and enjoying a day of at-home leisure (roughly stated, not wearing the requisite make-up, hair pulled back and lounging in my sweat pants).  By not indulging in exorbitant amounts of daily cosmetics, when the door is opened I know the person’s breath will not taken away, shock will not register on their face, or a gasp won’t escape when they momentarily do not recognize me without “my face”.  Rather, they have more of a feeling of uncertainty, that something is amiss but they cannot put their finger on it (keep ‘em guessing!).

I wonder whatever happened to that little boy with the honest streak.  I think about him from time to time and wonder how he turned out.  I pray he kept up his one-child (then man) mission to rid the world of excess where it isn’t needed.  I would have to thank him for his burst of straightforwardness and hope he hasn’t lost any of the tact and perseverance he displayed with me, he certainly made an impression that has lasted the years… and to think it came from a 5-year old… wonder what I could learn from a 3, 8, 14 or 20 year old if I really take the time to listen to what they have to say?

Cynthia A. McClelland, curious observer of the obvious with interpretations of the oddities of daily life.  Mother, wife and lover of the furry, resides in the north Lake Tahoe area.

Cynthia A. McClelland © 2003-