In the Pink
January 27, 2007
Low skies, grey light, and the anticipation of snow makes me put on a pink turtleneck today. The view from my bedroom could be a study in values and if I were smart, I'd concentrate on sketching that and working on my tonal values. Instead, I have an early hair appointment and spend a few hours in the salon, where my hair stylist tells me of his youth in Sicily and shows me photos of his rosebud baby girl. The woman who washes my hair, Sonia, who has skintight bronze hair, (something I would die to be able to pull off), almost lulls me to sleep while she washes my hair with rosemary scented shampoo and rinses with jets of warm water. Then I walk to the corner and absolutely have to go into a shop called "Pink on Palmer" - it was made for days like this,a shop filled with scented candles and luxurious make up and cosmetic bags striped in silks and the most whimsical and frivolous bath soaps and salts and crystals from all over the world. I hold a cake of creamy, almond heart-shaped soap in my hand and it is as comforting as a baked apple in the oven.
I'm in the market for some make up, having squeezed the last little bit out of my drugstore foundation. Perhaps they have something a bit more upscale, something that would look good and allow me to skip the dreaded trip to the giant mall that will be the world's biggest parking lot on a cold, dreary day like today. The store is set up like an old fashioned pharmacy, but the shelves are filled with eye-popping color and European packaging and expensive-sounding names. First, I have to get pass the candles. I want to buy them just for their heavy cardboard and metal rivets packaging, unless I buy the neighboring toile fabric covered squat candles that would look so cute on my dresser. Body creams - hand creams! I flex my own lobster claws and feel the skin crack around my knuckles. I am in serious need of a head to toe makeover on a dimestore budget, but this is not the place for that.
Even the check out station is adorable with a low, white painted tables and two boudoir chairs slipcovered in pink plaid taffeta. Would they let me work here on the weekends? If it were my store, I'd fill it with jasmine and honeysuckle and rosemary and mint and let the customers use a mortar and pestle to muddle their own fleur de sel. I'd have make up parties for grown ups, when serious, professional women could come in and apply glitter to their cheeks and French eyeshadows in plum and bronze and cerulean blue and silvers that appear to have once been icicles shipped from the Alps. Shimmer is not something I wear on my middle aged lids, but why is dress up just for little girls? Perhaps that's it - I should be a make up artist, swooshing a shimmering pink on young girls' lips and dusting bronze on the tip of a nose. Rose-kissed cheeks would appear beneath my powder puff and I would know the tricks of the trade regarding concealers, waxing, and the other extraordinary glosses and creams that always leave me baffled and longing.
But no, today, I am just a middle aged artist looking for a little relief from mid-winter dead pan skin and the dusky circles that make me tired when I see myself in the mirror. Warning: do not stand in the midday light, as feeble as it is on this January day, and watch a stranger apply foundation to your skin. There are cracks and crevices and bumps and bruises and veining and hairs that you never knew existed. And now she knows, too. My only hope is client/cosmetologist privilege and I hope it holds up in court.
I am about to turn myself over top to bottom to their make up artist, hoping that the back of the store holds a warming pan of wax and herbal masque, but Mr. Pom's latest comments about the Christmas bills rings in my head. So I am sensible and come away with only a French foundation, light as washed silk, a "professional" concealer, (heavy duty use I infer from her comments), which is meant to be mixed with an expensive eye cream (I tell her I have a sample at home), a coral lipstick I'm not sure about and a sheer pink gloss that gives me the shine of youth that my dried out, narrow lips lost about 2 kids ago. I leave the "Crisp Linen" scented candle behind, take a furtive peek at the silk make up bags with the intent of whipping up a few at home, and steel myself to leave the lavender salt scrub and thyme facial mask for another purchase. The owner compliments my hair and I give her the salon's card, only two doors away, and feel virtuous that I have networked for the little stretch of shops.
As I walk back to my car, another boutique calls to me. I stiffen the shoulders and don't turn my head. Last hair cut, two red glitter bottle brush Christmas trees with mercury glass candlestick companions came home with me. Must be prudent! Oh, but in the window there's a quilt done in yellows with a wide, thick red border and a trio of small yellow chunky pitchers atop a red tole tray. I quicken my step as Mr. Pom's face pops into my head. I'll have to be content to go home and paint a picture of my two red tole trays and ransack the cupboards to find my grandmother's yellow, hobnail water pitcher, though I haven't seen it since we moved.
Today, go out and find a bit of color to bring back home with you. Whether you wear it or display it or eat it, bring some reds and pinks and yellow into your house. I'm about to play with some slubby shimmering fat quarters of silks in jewel tones that draw me like a moth to a flame. Maybe today you will make a tart citron, like Paris Breakfasts, or paint a corner of your house cherry red, like Daisy Cottage.
May your weekend be pink and in the cherries.