The Mirror

Every morning my mother would stand in front of the gigantic mirror in the red Chinese bathroom downstairs. She'd reach up above the cabinet for her large wicker Little Red Riding Hood basket full of Clinique makeup and begin applying all of the layers to her face. I would watch, entranced. One day she looked over at me as she darkened her eyebrows with a black pencil. "I used to have arched eyebrows like yours, but they faded."

Then she applied eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, pancake, bright red lipstick, and finally a pale pink rouge to her olive skin which drove me nuts because it clashed. It was a red and white mix of pink, the absolute wrong color for her olive skin. I knew I couldn't tell the queen unless I wanted a slap across the face.

When I was 13 she said, "You can wear makeup now, like your older sister, you're in Junior High." I tried a little on my eyelids and immediately broke out in red blotches - an allergic reaction I am still proud of to this day.