The Day I Discovered That Mascara Runs When You Cry

When I was growing up and hitting that awkward phase that would last me approximately 15 years I remember my dad saying, ‘If you want to go anywhere with your dad be ready, always be ready. What did that mean? I have pants on, I have a shirt on, and sandals take 2 seconds. I was never ready, sometime I was but that was just luck. When I asked my dad what he considered “ready” he said my hair had to be done, I had to have a good outfit on and shoes with socks. I decided to spend most of my time at home. I just didn’t have a clue, I was a tom boy. Ready would mean I would have to wear one of those Laura Ashley dresses my mom forced on me on Sundays and white stockings with those horribly uncomfortable payless shoes that made my feet sweat. Damn poufy sleeves and stockings that never stayed up. My mother wasn’t any better. Always telling me to play with my hair? You can’t just say this to kid, I’m 11…what is that suppose to mean? My mother was terrible at playing with my hair, it was painful. She did have 4 girls so I can understand the lack of patience when it came to doing our hair in the morning. She would take to our hair like pulling weeds in the yard. Not that she ever gardened. She would pull our hair into a tight pony tale till hour eyes where pulled back. We looked Asian. I remember the pain very well; it felt like my skin was going to pull away from my forehead. I remained perfectly still and while she wasn’t looking loosened the vise grip band that ensnared my youthful hair. So the notion of playing with my hair just sounded painful to me. Playing is fun, hair is not. I don’t recall what I did with my hair; I probably just pulled it back into a messy pony tale. I wanted to try though. Makeup seemed fun and mom had loads of it. I would steal my mom’s makeup and run into the bathroom to try it on. I would always take it off before leaving the bathroom but I figured if she ever caught me she would be proud because at least I was trying and would help realize I wasn’t a lesbian. I grew up watching my aunties put on make-up, it was fascinating. They would wake up in the morning looking like a complete mess and in a matter of just a few minutes turn into beautifully painted human beings. There eyes where bigger, lips where redder and there checks where…pointer? I’m not sure they always did that diagonal line on there check bones with red blush that just made there checks seem pointer or something. Anyways I had seen makeup done a hundred times. I was tired of being called a boy and I wanted to become one of those painted beauties. Mascara was the one thing I thought was dangerous; how my aunties did this in the car with one knee on the wheel…I quiver at the thought. My first attempt was a success, kind of. I remember the methodical process and patience I had when applying the mascara. I was gentle and cautious, gliding the mascara on my eyelashes making sure not to get any on my lids or eye balls. Once I was done I looked at my big brown eyes and thought ‘I look glories’. As soon I had finished I heard the faint voice of my father saying he was going to rent movies. I was ready!!! I ran out the bathroom and screamed “I’m ready, I’m ready!!!” My dad looked at me and asked, ‘where are your shoes?” I looked down and looked back up and said, ‘but I’m ready.’ I wasn’t ready, I had no shoe’s on…no ruffle socks, no Reeboks, no candy at the video store. I was devastated; I burst into tears…black streams of liquid started falling down my cheeks. My sisters where freaked out, my father was certainly not going to take me now, my mother was furious. She screamed at me for using her mascara, I wiped the tears from my cheeks to discover a black streaked hand. She scolded me harshly and sent me straight the bathroom to clean my face. I sat on the sink using my tears as make-up remover and telling myself that my mother hated me. All my hard work, all my attempts to be girly where swiftly thwarted with rejection and a verbal lashing. My mother stood outside the bathroom door listening to me cry over the rejection I just experienced. She came in and gave me a hug and said she didn’t hate me, I just wasn’t allowed to use her make up. She wiped off the remainder of the mascara and gave me a few bites of her Hagen Daze vanilla swiss almond ice cream. This was considered a great honor in our home.