Memories in a Makeup Shop

I knew it would happen like this, the slow sinking-in of how things have changed. I haven’t seen my daughter lately. It’s not because we are on different schedules—she a night owl sleeping late into the morning, and me an early-to-bed-early-riser. It’s not that she is busy with homework, at play rehearsal, out with friends or working at her summer job. It is not for any of the usual reasons. My daughter has left home for college. She really is gone.

I need no more evidence of her departure than the condition of her room—eerily clean, unrecognizable. And it looks the same every time I open the door—just a crack—and peer into it. Though she’s been gone for weeks, I can still picture her little trails—the bobby pins next to the sink, the Kleenexes on the couch, the textbooks and papers on the stairs, the suede Rocket Dog shoes left by the front door. I see her shimmery eye shadow and Sephora compact on the bookshelf next to my bed, the place where she kept her little make-up pile.

There are all kinds of stories embedded in my daughter’s things. I will always remember the one about Sephora. Our family was in New York City, the spring of my daughter’s junior year of high school, trying to build some fun into the grueling college search process. We’d been all across New York, to Skidmore and Bard, Vassar and NYU. Exhausted from the college touring, we’d walked around the city for a while, had a nice dinner at a little Italian restaurant off Fifth Avenue, and then walked around some more. As usual, my husband and son had different browsing interests than my daughter and I. My daughter wanted to go to Sephora. I’d never heard of it before. She said it was a fabulous make-up shop, one-of-a-kind, amazing. Seeing the panicked look on my son’s face, my husband quickly suggested that they head over to the NBA store.

We synchronized our watches and agreed to meet back at our designated spot in an hour. My daughter and I then entered the world of Sephora. Groups of finely dressed young women wandered around, teetering on high heels, perusing the shelves and counters lined with cosmetics and creams. There were eye shadows, lipsticks and lotions, hair gels, perfumes and mascaras. There were samples of cosmetics with Q-tips and tissues scattered all over the store. It was fantastic.

The best part was watching my daughter have such fun with it all, trying on eye shadows, wiping off lipsticks, dabbing and smearing on more. She finally settled on a shimmery eye shadow and a Sephora compact. I had no intention of buying anything; I was content to simply sample and browse. My daughter, though, wouldn’t hear of it. “You have to get something, Mom,” she insisted. And at that moment I realized this was not just about buying some special make-up for my daughter. She was desperate for me to come away with something. She was steadfast, determined; she was on a mission. Linking her arm with mine, she guided me to the different stations, making suggestions, paying me compliments, offering encouragement.

We were shocked by how expensive everything was. This was a far cry from the cosmetics we bought at our occasional trips to CVS. After almost an hour, I finally spotted the Shiseido silky eye shadow. The case itself was a work of art, a shiny black oval-shaped compact that opened to reveal soft green and brown shadows, a small mirror and a two-sided brush. “This is the one for you, Mom,” my daughter said excitedly. I checked the price and gasped—$30. At that point, though, I had no choice. I had to get it.

Before checking out, I made one final detour. I’d noticed my daughter eyeing a large black tube that she’d gone back to several times, turning it over in her hands before hesitating and putting it back. It was a ‘smashbox’ product that was both blush and lipstick. “Why not?” I said, grabbing one from the bin. “Are you sure, Mom?” my daughter said, looking both concerned and excited. “You don’t have to get it.” But of course I did.

I gathered my daughter’s shimmery eye shadow, Sephora foundation, smashbox and my Shiseido and headed to the register. Our jaws dropped when we heard the sales clerk announce the total—$98.00. We laughed at how absurd it was. Sure, it was a ridiculous amount of money to spend on make-up. But it really wasn’t about the make-up. It was about my daughter and I going arm in arm, counter to counter, testing creams, sharing stories, preening, laughing. It was about doing something I’d never done before. It was about spending time with my daughter in a make-up shop in New York City.

My husband and son were waiting for us at our designated spot when my daughter and I finally met up with them. I knew they must have wondered how we could have possibly spent over an hour in a make-up store. If I hadn’t been there, I too, would have wondered how it was possible. “How’d you girls make out?” my husband asked. We smiled as my daughter held up our bag. “Fine,” we answered in unison. “We just got a few things,” I added, thinking that, though somewhat misleading, I had indeed spoken the truth. And I didn’t say another word.

Like Sephora, there are other stories in my daughter’s trails. And the telling of them brings everything back—brings her back—at least for a while. On those days when the sight of her spotless room and uncluttered stairs makes me feel sad, I reach into the trails for another story. And another, then another. And I tell them to myself, in all their richly vivid detail, until everything feels all right.

(This piece is a revision of two columns published in 2006 on townonline.com)