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| Lipstick | |
| By Bluegirl | ||||
| 08 October 2006 | ||||
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Her hand quivers as she smears red lipstick across her lips. She feels the same familiar twinge of excitement as she did the first time she wore it; her first dance. The lipstick evokes happy memories of that night, and the ones since. It’s the smell that reminds her, more than the colour. Although she recalls how horrified her mother was when she first saw her wearing it. Who was she to wear a bright red lipstick? Didn’t she know only easy girls wore that colour? She’d laughed at her mother’s old-fashioned ideas. Oh mum! Everyone wears it now! Isn’t it beautiful? Maybe you should try it, too. She smiles, as she remembers. It took many years, but her mum would wear it eventually, secretly, when her dad wasn’t around to disapprove. She’d even worn it to her own funeral. The soft cosmetic smell of the lipstick evokes memories of dancing, and laughter, and the GI’s, with their cigarettes and silks. It certainly paid to have them on your side, and what was a dance and a kiss for all the stockings you could want? It was a war, there had to be some fun, you never knew when it might be your last dance. Your last anything. She knows her daughter would be appalled if she ever knew the truth, of the dancing, and the GI’s and the lipstick. In some ways she reminds her of her mother, she’s so practical and serious, and often she’d resisted the urge to tell her, just to watch the shock on her face when she realised her mother had done more than just bring up a family. . But some things are better kept a secret, to pull out once in a while, like a treasured photograph and remind yourself who you used to be. A secret part of yourself that only you know about. Then no matter what hand life deals you, there’s always something to bring a smile to your face. There were times in her life when this had been her only consolation, to sit here, and remember her youth. To feel as though her life had meaning and hadn’t been wasted on nonsense. She was just another wife and mother, and yet she had once been adored, men queuing to whisk her onto the dance floor. Now she can’t recall the day she grew into a woman, and put her joyful, girlish ways behind her. She only knows that it’s something she regrets. A voice calls up to her, and she is dragged abruptly back to the present.. “I’m making a cup of tea, d’you want one? Corrie’s on in ten minutes.” She takes a tissue and wipes the past from her lips. As she hides the lipstick away in the drawer, her gaze falls on the collection of pills and toiletries on her dressing table, and she stops to think about her life. She has kept the secret joys of her youth hidden behind a veil of domesticity for as long as she can remember, taking them out every so often and admiring them, like a treasured possession. Those memories have kept her going through some hard times, reminding her that, for a while, she had the world at her feet. She doubts the man downstairs would recognise the feisty young woman who still dwelled within her calm and dignified exterior. The disapproving looks and criticism from her mother had finally sunk in, and she had ultimately conformed to be the poised, domesticated wife and mother she’d been expected to become. A shadow of her former self. But she had kept the lipstick. “Ok, I’ll be down in a bit.” She replies, wondering how it came to this: looking forward to a soap opera and a cup of tea after all that dancing. She led a peaceful life now. Too peaceful, really. It hadn’t been all bad. That would be unfair to her husband, he was a good man. He’d worked hard for her and their family, expected nothing in return, really. He’d always been a quiet, unassuming man. But through the years, she had silently wished he had more passion about him, a spark of something. Still, it was too late now; she’d be eighty years old next month. Eighty! She peered at her reflection in the mirror, and was shocked by what she saw; not for the first time, either. Sometimes it slipped her mind how old she really was. Inside she was still sweet sixteen, going to her first dance or eighteen and sharing her first kiss. She’d catch her face in a mirror, and wonder who the stranger was looking back at her. She doesn’t know where the lines and wrinkles came from, but no amount of wonder cream will ever lift them. She smiles fondly as she remembers the way Bill would laugh at the potions on her dressing table. “I wouldn’t have you any differently,” he would say.” They show that you have lived.” She blushes. If only he knew how true his words were. It saddens her that this life must end; that she will go to her grave without anyone knowing her secret life, how she was the belle of the ball, dancing until dawn because life was for the taking. Not this, sitting, waiting for Death to come and take her without ever appreciating how precious life really is. She knows that she danced and flirted and kissed in her youth because she didn’t know for sure that she had a tomorrow. When the war ended, so did her youth, her zest for life. Suddenly there were tomorrows, many of them. All filled with husbands and babies and work. No time for fun anymore. Now she is nearly eighty, and she wants to dance and kiss and laugh once again. There’s a sparkle in her eye, she knows it’s been there forever, but she has never admitted why. She wonders if anyone other than her granddaughter has ever really noticed it. Grandma has happy eyes, Katie used to say. She thinks fondly of Katie, her only granddaughter. She knows they share more than the usual Grandmother-granddaughter bond, they share the sparkle. It’s there for all to see, nestling in the corner of her left eye. Katie has an affection for red lipstick too. She knows her time is running out, and she has sacrificed her youth for what other people thought was more important. She doesn’t regret it; she has a beautiful daughter and granddaughter to show for it. But she does wonder how different it would have been if she’d followed her heart and not her head. She makes a mental note to urge Katie to follow her dreams the next time she speaks to her, not to let that sparkle go out. She makes a mental note to urge Katie to follow her dreams the next time she speaks to her, not to let that sparkle go out. There are footsteps on the stairs, and a soft tap on the bedroom door. Bill slowly enters the room, a cup of tea in his hand, which he places carefully on the dressing table. He looks at his wife with concern. “Is everything all right, Rose? Are you feeling ill?” She nods, and smiles at his kindly old face. “Everything’s fine, Bill. “ She says, “Nothing to worry about.” An idea crosses her mind. In truth she’s been thinking about it, wistfully for several weeks, ever since she first heard about it. She’d thought her chance had gone, that she would never dance again. Suddenly she knows that she will. “There’s ballroom dancing at the Town Hall tomorrow night. Can we go?” Her husband places a hand on her cheek. “If you like, I always wanted to learn how to dance.” He pauses, remembering a bygone time. “You should wear that red lipstick you always used to wear. When we were young and life wasn’t so serious. I miss that lipstick. “
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