Daily Newsie

I added a new item the other day to my list of Things I’ve Learned Since I Moved to Kentucky: Never let a Southern girl do your makeup.

I was covering makeovers en masse on Sunday night, a treat for women who’ve just graduated from the Housing Authority’s “hand up, not a hand out”-type program. I sat on a table by the wall, watching as their eager faces were powdered, blushed, and lipsticked, waiting for a chance to ask them about their histories, their goals, the unfortunate series of events that landed them on public assistance, and the circumstances that led to their re-emergence as wage-earning members of society free of the welfare stigma. Instead, I got an invitation to the hot seat, which I politely declined until the women began to cheer for me to do it — to forsake my un-made-up self for a dramatic diva.

So I put down my notebook and pen and slipped off my glasses, closing my eyes to the makeup girl’s soft touch. I felt her slathering foundation on my skin with what felt like a paintbrush, followed by another coat of something (I was scared to ask), and several swirls of blush.

By this time, the ladies who’d already been made over were gathered around my chair, their beautiful faces aglow with anticipation. We joked about making me look like one of the girls on our local television station and really started to be comfortable around each other, just a bunch of girls playing with make-up rather than reporter and sources dancing around a touchy subject. I felt the makeup girl giving me what seemed like 50 coats of mascara on each eyelash, followed by several layers of lipcolor, before she spun me out of the chair and led me to the womens’ room. “Oohs” and “aahs” followed me down the hallway as I rushed to the mirror to stare in wonder at the woman looking back at me.

I looked beautiful. All the girls looked beautiful. As we gushed over each others’ new look, I slipped my notebook back into my hand and started asking the tough questions. And lo and behold, they answered. Because, really, we weren’t strangers anymore; we were united in mascara and lip gloss and an evening of laughter. There are those who’d say what I did was unprofessional, but, by God, it worked.

On my way home, I called The Boyfriend to have his camera ready to preserve my fabulous new face, and studied my purplish-pink pout in the rearview mirror. I breezed into my apartment feeling gorgeous beyond belief, and sashayed into the bathroom for a closer look.

Big mistake. Under the bright lights above the medicine cabinet, it was obvious my girl didn’t subscribe to a “less is more” mantra: It looked like I’d applied foundation with a trowel, then gone to the tanning bed for an hour or two. My lashes were clumped together like spiders in love, and I could almost hear my poor pores screaming for air. It took a layer of Noxzema and two rounds of soap to get it all off my face — between teasing their hair to heretofore unseen heights and rubbing an entire Lancome counter on their face every morning, Southern girls must wake up at 4 a.m. just to get ready for work.

But, truthfully, the women at the Housing Authority’s program were lovely, naked faces and all. If all it took to win their trust was a face full of cosmetics and some girl-about-town gossip, I was more than happy to oblige. Although we’re separated by circumstances, salaries, and experiences, underneath the powder we’re all women, and that counts for something.