War Paint

Grandma puts make-up on like she's getting ready to fuck somebody up. The first step is to tweeze any ridiculously long hairs from her chin and neck, and after that the real work starts. She stares herself down in the mirror, streaks foundation across her cheeks, pats all over her nose and chin, grinds some blush into her skin with a scraggly brush that has seen better days and smears the blackest black eyeliner not just over her eye lines but her eye brows, too. The eye shadow she uses doesn't really do much; it's a very light violet that she picked out ten years ago, still, she never skips it. Top it off with the brightest, shiniest, waxiest (and possibly OLDEST!) lipstick available and you've got a worthy warrior, for sure!

The lipstick, of course, is the most important piece of the puzzle. It's easily applied and offers the most gratification once applied; it makes her look like she's vibrant and healthy. There is no favorite brand, or even a favorite color, but she's got tubes stashed all over the house; in every drawer and cupboard, in the all the  cars nooks and crannies, in the pockets of pants and jackets (whether or not they've gone through the laundry is irrelevant). All shades of pink and red are represented equally, and at this point even the ones with reflective glittery bits all end up having a matte finish.  Lipstick is reapplied constantly, enthusiastically and thoroughly.

The upshot of this slip-shod (but decidedly determined) application is that make-up is continually rubbing off on something. Lipstick can always found on glasses and mugs and collars, but the foundation that I would find in curious places always mystified me; was she rubbing her face against the glasses and mugs, too? Was she marking her territory cat-style? Recently I've discovered that the sloughed foundation is not from her face but her FINGERS! All make-up application is done with her fingers (the exception being lipstick and eyeliner) and because she has very little sensitivity in her fingers and her arthritis has left them fairly distorted she has no idea what's on her fingers at any given moment and that unknown material is deposited on everything Grandma touches. I once tried  to get her to use moist towelettes on her hands after she put her make-up on, but that failed miserably; she can't open the towelette pouch.

Despite these difficulties and her obviously diminishing eye for detail (based on her satisfaction with her own appearance I sometimes wonder whether she can actually SEE me when she pays me a compliment ...) she still will never step out of the house without her hair set or her make-up on. She'll wear stained clothing out, and occasionally her house slippers to a bridge game, and her hair or make-up never looks particularly good, but she never-the-less insists on the ritual and once it's done swears that she "finally looks like herself!" (yes, she talks in the third person.) In this way she prepares for the battles she faces each day; sorting out insurance and medical billing over the phone, going to a doctors office a party or a funeral, and receiving guests at the house in your robe is nothing shameful when you've got your face on and your hair set!