I really thought I had avoided it.
By the time my daughter Clementine started to show any interest in anything even vaguely resembling make-up she was already of the firm opinion that I didn’t know anything about anything, and so my advice on the subject was neither welcome nor solicited. Which was fine with me, because, on this at least, she was right. What I know about make-up could fill a small thimble and still leave plenty of room for the thumb. And so, yeah, I was pretty psyched when Clementine decided that she was going to figure all of that stuff out on her own, and then did. I assumed that meant I was off the hook.
What I didn’t figure on, however, was my son, Clyde.
Don’t get me wrong. Clyde isn’t going through his Billie Jo Armstrong phase or anything. He’s not wearing guyliner. (Although guyliner is actually kind of hot.) He’s not signing up for mani-pedis. (Although I kind of wish he would—boy feet are disgusting.) No, it’s worse than all that. Clyde is a dancer, and, apparently, dancers need to wear make-up when they are on stage. Make-up that I’m expected to know something about.
When he brought home the list of make-up products that he would be required not only to own, but apply before his upcoming performance I was completely lost. Out of the eight items on the list I only recognized two—and I thought they were both the same thing. I mean, mascara and eyeliner are both black, and they both come in tubes, right? They both get stuck in your eye, don’t they? Why would they be two different things? And yet, apparently, they are.
At one point in my life I knew people who understood make-up. I don’t know if I cut them out of my life or they cut me, but in any case it means that these days all of my friends have about as much experience with make-up as I do. Well, actually, probably a little more, since they all at least used to wear it in high school. I didn’t even have that—the first (and only) time I tried to put make-up on I was reminded of my deep-seated fear of clowns, and that was it for me. Not that having friends with lots of make-up experience would help that much, anyway, unless said make-up experience included putting make-up on twelve-year-old boys. (And if that is the case then I want to know why they’ve been keeping all of the really good stories to themselves).
And I know that, in the grand scheme of things, I have gotten off incredibly lucky: I see what the parents of the female dancers have to go through, with not only make-up but hair, and I realize full well that things could be worse. Much worse. As in: time to break down and finally buy a hairbrush, worse.
I suppose that this really isn’t any different from the time Clyde tried to play hockey and I was confronted with a pile of pads taller than he was and told to “get him suited up.” And in fact, at least with make-up I know that it all goes on the face—some of that hockey gear I still wonder which body part it was supposed to protect. Which is why, in the end, I took the same approach to Clyde’s hockey gear as I eventually did with his make-up: I took a long, calming breath, sorted everything into different piles, and then… left.
Some other mother got Clyde dressed for hockey, and I’m sure some other mother will help Clyde with his make-up as well. I know, I’m a coward, but what can I say: it works for me.