| A
month or so ago, my husband and I were going out to dinner and stopped
on the way to pick up some tool or another my husband needed from
a friend of his. I'd never met his wife and children, and when we
walked in there were two twin girls, around 3, who rushed over to
make my acquaintance. Their older sister, maybe five or six, was
a bit more shy, but she eventually edged into the group.
Now,
I was raised in an almost completely female world. I sort of remember
men around the edges, my father and grandfather, my uncle who seemed
to always be getting into one dramatic escapade after another, and
my little brother. But mainly it was my sisters and me, and my mother,
and my grandmother, and sometimes some of my mother's friends, and
often the girls from the neighborhood.
But
this generation, things are different. My mother's brothers had
boys, one two, the other four. I had two boys. My sisters each had
one. There is one girl in the entire crop of children this generation,
and in my own house, The Male World Rules.
So
coming into this house where the little girls were so sure of their
place in the world, sure enough that I'd want to see their bathing
suits and new shoes for their vacation that they could not wait
to pull them out, hold them up to their little tummies, and then
change and model them for me was quite an astonishment. They dazzled
me with their sweetness, with their delight in something like bathing
suits, and I was ecstatic to be able to admire them. Their mother,
laughing and a little embarrassed, attempted to rein them in a little.
I, so charmed, insisted it was fine, and I talked with her by the
kitchen door as she cooked supper for her crew, the girls swirling
around us on one busy errand after another. One leaned on me, putting
her head on my thigh and I loved the easy feel of her small hand
on the back of my knee.
After
a few minutes, one of the twins came to me with a little bit of
a frown. "Would you like me to fix that little spot in your
hair that isn't quite right?"
Her
mother protested, "Oh, no, honey. She's fine. Her hair looks
great."
But
the older sister, and now the twin joined the conspiracy, their
eyes alight with the possibility that this new female might really
go for it...
It
hit me. They wanted to brush my hair. My knees dissolved under me
and I sat on the floor, smiling at the mother. "Sure. I'd love
it if you fixed that spot for me."
They
all ran for brushes, and barrettes and pins. The brush was too big
for their hands, so it slid over the top of my hair, and sometimes
very close to my eyes. But the three of them got to work, their
hands fluttering around my head, lighting in gentleness upon my
brow, over my cheek. They fussed and rearranged, stood back to see
if it was right and it wasn't, quite. One readjusted the barrette
over my ear, "you want to get those bangs out of your eyes,"
and one asked her mother if they could use a particular clip and
send it with me, a gift.
And
with them, I was six, putting toy make up on my sister's lips and
cheeks, (actually, my mother often slept late, and her real lipstick--and
my sister--sometimes paid the price). I was eight and my grandmother
was manicuring my nails. I was ten, sharing a forbidden collection
of Maybelline's Blooming Colors eye shadow with my circle of best
friends. I don't remember who actually owned the compact, but the
ritual was always the same--she brought it to school and put it
on, and left it on the high windowsill in the girls room. One by
one, we left the classroom, anointed ourselves with soft purple
or blue or gray, and returned, ready to start the day. Carefully,
before we went home, we wiped any remaining color away. With those
little girls, brushing my hair, I was thirteen and babysitting some
other girls, just this size, and we were painting our toenails.
I was fifteen, and my sister was French braiding my hair for school.
I was twenty, painting the nails of a shy two year old whose trust
I hoped to win.
There
have been no little girls around me to brush my hair or let me paint
their nails. I had forgotten what a joy it is, how easy it is for
us to take care of each other, sisters and mothers and daughters
and friends. And as if to emphasize that point, I traveled away
to a conference where there was hardly a male in sight. I stayed
up late and talked about girl things, which have changed a little--from
boyfriends and pregnancy to careers and personal satisfaction and
how to fit ourselves into a world that needs more of our time that
we have to give. But we still fussed over hair. We borrowed and
traded lipsticks and jewelry and purses. We compared the uplift
of bras and discussed the merits of stockings or not. Our rooms
smelled of lavender and hairspray and make up. The detritus of our
rush through the rooms was bits of glitter and lipstick marked glasses.
A couple
of weeks later, I sat in a room with another group of women, talking
very seriously about a very serious subject: molestations in youth
and how often it happened and how often we were silent. One woman
painted her nails as we talked. Another took down her braids, a
long, long process. An older one, dressed neatly and in the fashion
of another age, folded and refolded her hands. A baby girl, less
than two, wandered among us, sitting on one lap, then another, getting
fussy until she discovered my interlocked bracelets that I put on
her plump little arm. Ebb and flow, sad and triumphant, the stories
tumbled out over a long, long afternoon, in a room made by a woman
for a woman's tastes--for the hostess of this gathering lives alone,
and on her walls are pictures of women, women in history and women
in high fashion poses and pictures of women friends and sisters
and daughters. Under those faces, the stories tumbled out, and the
healing, and the lancing of boils. And all the while, there is a
bracelet in a toddler's mouth and the smell of nail polish and coffee.
Flash forward a month, and I am with four elderly women and my sister-in-law
on an afternoon's outing. One is my grandmother, 81, wearing her
big straw hat to protect her delicate skin from the high altitude
sunlight. Another is my mother-in-law, carrying her cane, but wearing
all of her make-up, and her two sisters, one trim and quiet, the
other more voluptuous and chatty. We cover two races and four decades
between us. The younger women are dressed in neat shorts and t-shirts
in deference to the summer heat. The older women have all worn "nice"
clothes. Slacks or skirts and tucked-in blouses, stockings or anklets
on their feet. We stop at a tea shop and eat sandwiches and insist
to each other that we must have dessert because we'll walk it off.
The conversation turns to food. To the memory of greens cooked in
Southern childhoods in various ways. To the pecan rolls one of the
aunts made. To my grandmother's icebox pie and Velveeta macaroni
and cheese. I have learned to make a truly great potato salad from
the aunt famous for her pecan rolls, and as the conversation rolls
around the food, I hug that secret tightly to me, pleased that I
will have one thing--finally--that I can bring to a family gathering
that might beat something of my sister's, She Who Braided My Hair
and is, everyone says so, the Greatest Cook In the World.
When
I was a teenager, I gave up painting my nails. I grew out my hair
and wore it in a style that required neither curling tools or styling
products. I eschewed dresses and high heels. I never admitted, ever,
that I had once been so in love with my Barbie dolls that I carried
them around in a special case my mother made. Artifice was not for
me (though here I must now admit that I never could deal with being
the dishwater blonde nature gave me, and streaked my hair from the
age of fifteen on).
I can
wake up wash and wear. In the mountains, I don't have to put on
my makeup or even wash my hair. I don't mind getting dirty in the
garden, and I can sweat with the best of them.
But
today, I am sitting at my computer surrounded with all the things
my inner twelve year old has insisted the past couple of years that
I needed to reclaim. There are piano shawls with velvet and fringe
hanging on the walls, and a bright pink silk prayer shawl embroidered
with gold. Medieval Barbie swings her feet over the edge of a shelf,
and behind her is the cute Indian doll from Pocahontas. My nails,
today, are painted dark purple. My toenails are painted. I can use
a curling iron and have forty seven different kinds of gel for whatever
my mood happens to be, and there are three lipsticks at the bottom
of my purse, plus Carmex. I have undergarments for every possible
occasion, and slips in four colors and lengths. I have seven pairs
of black strappy sandals and am hankering for a pair in gold. On
my arm are a Tiffany silver bracelet and a tangle of iridescent
black beads strung on elastic.
And
they please me.
|
