Make Up
I scrutinize the face that looms in the mirror. The mirror that substitutes for my weak eyes. The magnified glass is simply indispensable for any cosmetic endeavour these days, yet it illuminates the horrors of my ageing skin. Large pores; deep folds and creases. I often theorise that presbyopia has its benefits. Without magnification, I can squint and declare myself twenty-one again.
I pick up my foundation and catch the smell. It transports me to a hot, stuffy room full of small children. Not exactly the queasy oiliness of greasepaint, but close enough. The children are getting ready for a play and, as one of the senior members of the drama school, I am now allowed to apply their make-up. Leichner grease sticks with numbers and exotic names. Carmine 3 and Crimson Lake. It is frantic and chaotic. Mostly because Miss Redman is there. She is tall, wiry and has a short fuse. We tread carefully around her.
Children whimper as hairnets are twisted tight and stapled to heads with vicious hairpins. Wigs are tugged into place with a barked command, ‘Finger here. Press hard. Don’t wriggle.’ Woe betide anyone whose digit slips.
Once the costumes and wigs are in place, the facial transformations can begin. I bristle as I register the sexism of the time, where boys became tigers, clowns or old men and girls are turned into cats, country maids or hags. That aside, the fun is in the latter. We apply dark grey lines to brows, between eyebrows and at the sides of eyes. Under dressing room lights, the colour is shocking, but I know it will soften on stage. The seven-year-old boy will look ninety, if he can combine voice and movement with his new visage. Right now, they are behaving like the primary school kids they are, giggling and shoving. The juxtaposition of youth and decay is unsettling. In a moment, they will be lined up and route marched to their starting positions. The magic will begin.
But one technique lingers with me still. Grey streaks slashed diagonally from the edge of the nostrils to the outer lip, and onwards from the corners of the mouth down towards the chin. Bright, white parallel lines enclose the shadow marks to further emphasis the depth of the imaginary, folded skin. These gashes are called marionette lines; the gaps in the wooden face of a puppet where the mouth articulates. I mind less about the laughter lines around my eyes than I do about these portents of sadness and ill-temper.
I smile wryly. The very technique which rendered children as senior citizens is a daily procedure for me now. I work in reverse to minimise the damage. Light concealer takes the place of the grey, a sort of visual illusion to fill and plump the grooves. I squint again and evaluate the outcome. It’s all smoke and mirrors; smoke and mirrors.
THE END