I Can See Clearly Now

Blue is Good
Originally uploaded by graciecavnar

Grace Notes Column as published in Tribeza Magazine, January 2008
By Gracie Cavnar

Recently, in response to what I thought was poor vanity lighting, I had a make-up mirror installed. The next morning, I flipped it on and found, peering back at me, magnified seven times over, my mother’s eyes. I don’t mean big, beautiful, blue mother’s eyes; I’m talking the crêpe-lid variety that shocked me as a fourteen year-old in 1966. That was the year I decided to treat my Mom to a make-up session.
I taught modeling at the time. Make-up lessons were a part of the basic instructional package at Ben Shaw Modeling Agency in San Antonio, which meant I was painting up about fifteen faces every week in addition to my own. In 1966 the look was heavy black liner, dramatic brown shadows in the eyelid’s crease, stark white highlights under the brow, lots of eyelashes upper and lower, theatrical bronze blush over the cheekbone plus brown in the hollows and frosted pink lips. Not unlike the current Goth look, sans the black lipstick. Mother must have been horrified, but she wisely gave me a long leash with transitory beauty experiments.

In my dismissive analysis, I hadn’t looked close enough at her face to realize that Mom no longer possessed the taut dermatopalette on which I was used to painting. The minute we started our intimate, girly lark, her cheeks—mushy under my ministration of foundation and blush—surprised me. When I got to her eyes, I was mystified. Her lids moved with even the lightest stroke of my brush, rendering a striking slash of shadow impossible. Concealer congealed in creases under her eyes. No matter how carefully I applied the liquid black liner, the brush trailed a ragged edge rather than the sharp Mod look I was going for.

Trying to keep Mom distracted and not hurt her feelings, I chatted away, but I was flummoxed. Despite my haute couture bravado, I was too inexperienced to know what to do with this 36 year-old, chain smoker’s face. The end result left neither of us excited, but no one let on. She laughed and mugged, and we never mentioned improvement of her make-up techniques again.

Unfortunately, neither did I make the connection that her face was my future as I blithely tripped through adolescence and into young adulthood. My girlfriends and I were smug. We took for granted blushing, dewy fresh skin and bright eyes that had not yet earned any circles. Despite nothing to cover up, we piled on so much make-up that we could have easily melted into the witness protection program without missing a beat. More was better as we became inured to the excesses while mimicking Twiggy’s doll-eyed look. Despite a consuming obsession with perfect make-up, I paid no attention whatsoever to the canvas—my skin. The first thing every morning I washed my face with —shudder—soap and water. Yet, every night for decades, I went to bed with whatever was left of my makeup still clinging and probably clogging. I was oblivious to the consequences.

In an expanded state of oblivion, we spent summer days from dawn until dusk lazing around the community pool, slathered from head to toe in baby oil mixed with iodine. We loved our homemade concoction for the golden glow it imparted while we clocked the sun time required to build up a real tan. In the soaring temperatures of South Texas, we might as well have been slow-baking turkeys. Who knows what horrible long-term affects we unleashed? As a redhead who quickly turned scarlet rather than bronze, I would burn and peel several times a season until I calculated the exact right exposure to transform my natural alabaster color into a light beige. Really good skin care.

It took me years to shun the sun and discover the magical elixir of H2O, which I now swear by; and I can only thank my lucky stars I never smoked. These days I reject the hand soap in favor of a much gentler concoction used more often and wear very little make-up during the day, reserving drama for evening dress-up. Sure, I’ve noticed that my eyes no longer offer as much real estate between lash and brow and that I am a little soft around the jowl, but I have never been one to spend big bucks on magic elixirs or hanker for a facelift. That was before the new make-up mirror.

It may have been a mistake. I was happier in ignorance, perhaps even delusional in thinking that I was aging gracefully. Turns out that I was hoodwinked by my ever more myopic eyes. Holy mascara! Now that I know what youngsters and people who have had Lasik surgery see, I am never allowing my husband under the knife to regain his 20/20 vision. Declining middle-aged eyesight is a beauty asset the power of which should not be taken lightly, so I’m dedicating myself to honoring the natural aging process. After all, do we really want to see everything clearly?