Voices in my head

I am not really a girly girl. I never learned to wear make up, carry a purse,and any heel over 1/2 inch sends my feet into crippling spasms. I have attended many a Winter event barefoot even though I arrived wearing stylish girly shoes. It's either take them off or limp around like a newly castrated lamb. If you've ever witnessed the lamb neutering thing, you'd know what I mean.
My mom was a big make-up wearer. She had a little make up artist table with a tiny stool to sit on in front of it.The mirror had lights all around like the kind the movie stars have. On the table sat her Styrofoam head;it wore her wigs, falls, and bandeaus when my mothers wasn't wearing them. I liked to stick pins in it's face when my mom wasn't looking.
Mommy Dearest would sit and apply the fake eye lashes, the blue eye shadow, go from brunette to platinum in seconds flat and then the shower of Aqua net while we hid our faces in our tee shirts from the toxic cloud.
Glam or US!
That's the way it was. All gussied up she'd then spend the rest of her day avoiding us (three children), yelling at us,or slapping us into submission. . . Or maybe just into hating her, I don't know.
I learned to stay far away from her whenever possible.
As a teen ager, my glam routine deviated from anything related to being like her. I woke up ten minutes before having to leave the house for school. Spent three minutes in the shower. Tied my hair into a pony tail, put on my jeans and a tee shirt,grabbed my back pack (never a purse), and walked to school.
As an adult, much less concerned about my mothers influence on the Universe, I realize the wearing of make up is an art form and if applied in the right way it can be pretty. Carrying a purse is something I do now out of necessity; I still do not know how to buy one though. What makes a purse good? (Please answer this if you know).
I grew out of the backpack thing when I was nearing thirty. I remember carring my blue backpack into a bar after work one afternoon. I tried to fit in and act like the natives in suburbia. "You spending the night" a fat middle aged male patron asked.
That shifted my perspective.
I still can't wear a heel. I am not into self torture and probably never will be.
In my mid twenties, I decided to try and wear a little makeup. I bought some lipstick, some eye shadow and blush. I could not handle the strangeness of this mask all happening at once so I would wear blush one day, lipstick only the next, and maybe combine two at the same time if I actually was going somewhere.
I'm lying, I never went anywhere in those days that required makeup.
Lipstick is fun, but it rubs off on your teeth. I don't know how often you are supposed to apply it, even now.
In my forties.
It makes my lips feel funny too and sometimes I put it on and see nothing but monkey butt in the mirror.
I remember the first time I wore lipstick to my job in Colonial Williamsburg. I was a server in one of the Taverns. Although we had to wear authentic colonial costumes and were not allowed to wear hair adornments or non-period accessories, we were permitted to wear makeup.
In the locker room, I change out of my jeans and tee shirt. Take off my flip-flops and put my backpack in my locker. I put on the white shift, the wool knee socks (even in August in Virginia), the skirt, pocket, apron and mob-cap.
I walk to the mirror and apply blood passion red lipstick to my lips and go up three flights of stairs to the dinner line up. All evening servers on hand, two managers and two chefs.
Managers talk rules. Chefs talk specials. Comments anyone?
Pam, our very Southern shaped hostess and my friend, has one she'd like to share:
"Ummn Hmn, everybody look at Stacy, tryin ta git a kiss."
Nearly twenty years have passed from that day. Just this morning I applied a bit of colored shimmery gloss to my lips when I got into work. And in my head I hear her voice, again, "Look at Stacy, tryin ta git a kiss"