Beauty School

Beauty School. I didn’t attend it. And it didn’t matter for most of my life. In my youth, I was a natural girl, typical of the late 1960’s/early 1970’s. I rarely trimmed my hair, which grew long and straight down my back. I wore white eye liner and pink Carnaby Street lip gloss for a while in my early teens, but by the time I went to college I gave up wearing makeup altogether. I even gave up wearing a bra.

When I was going through a divorce in the early 1990’s, and was about to reenter the dating scene, one friend suggested I wear “just a little lipstick.” Another showed me how to bend over when blow drying the roots of my hair to give it more body. I said no, however, to mousse and hair spray.

So I find myself here, at the age of 68, when the image in the mirror contradicts the image I maintain on the inside, needing a headshot for my website, for my writing endeavors. I know someone who can do it, so I call him on Thursday and we agree to meet downtown on Saturday afternoon. “I use the alleys downtown to shoot headshots,” he tells me, and then suggests colors I should wear for best results. Nothing about hair or makeup. How to style. How to best enhance my older, fading features. This sends my into a tailspin. I rummage through my closet; I think about making a quick shopping trip. I wonder if I have time to get a haircut. I rush to the drugstore to buy eyeliner, mascara and lipstick.

I spend the morning of the shoot fussing with my hair, using some styling products I was talked into at my last haircut. The eyeliner I bought is made to last, so the mistakes I make in applying it are hard to fix. The mascara smudges against my brow and forms my eyelashes into stiff spikes. The lipstick, in the shade closest to nothing I could find, barely makes a difference in my lip color.

The time comes for the shoot. I stuff a canvas bag with more than necessary top changes, and I remember to wear a tank top underneath to allow me to change in the alley. I set out for the meeting place with butterflies wrestling in my stomach.

It’s sunny. It’s breezy. Downtown is crowded with people enjoying the early March day. They’re eating out, shopping, visiting with each other. They’re not concerned about their hair, their makeup, or what to wear. He shows up with his camera and tripod, and we set off for the alley. The March wind blows my tamed hair; my barely stained lips stick to my teeth. Once in our spot and he is set up, he instructs me how to stand and angle my head, and what to do with my arms. He says he shoots in bursts, and I should start with a serious face and gradually smile through each burst. We wait for the breeze to still. I try to fix my hair. He starts shooting. People walk by the alley and look in at us and I relax into it, feeling my smile form naturally by the end of each burst. When he shows me a sample shot, I can accept it. Me, an older woman, looking somewhat wise, mostly friendly, with slightly tousled hair and faint makeup. I’m still happy to be alive, and I still have many stories to tell.