THE MAKE-OVER
I looked very carefully. Attention to detail was very important. Scanning her face, which seemed a little impassive to me compared with the photographs of her I’d been given, I could see her pinch-points, the stresses and strains of her life and everything that she would probably rather conceal. I started to make some mental notes.
Battling cancer had taken its toll on her skin which seemed devoid of life. I knew what cancer could do – it wasn’t just the mental struggle, it was the physical toll. Why wouldn’t someone want to be pampered back to life? I understood that completely. As a breast cancer survivor, I knew how important it was, after the boxing ring bouts of chemotherapy followed by the melt down air bath sessions of radiotherapy, to try to get back to the woman you were. The shadow of cancer seemed to live on in the dead cells of your skin.
We started with coffee. Hot and strong, while I walked slowly around her, looking at the photograph in my hand, drinking in the waves of her long, blonde hair as I sipped my drink intermittently, comfortable with her silence. I lifted what was left of her hair and a strand broke off between my fingers. I set it down gently, not looking at her face. Her lips were set tight, her eyes half closed. I knew what she was thinking looking in the mirror every day as her hair began to thin out and her cheekbones began to jut out of her face. It was one thing having cancer, contained inside your body doing its damn best to kill you, but it was another thing when that carcinogenic started to work its way out to your skin and hair, clawing with its filthy hands and ravaging your body as well as your mind.
“Don’t worry,” I said, setting my coffee cup down on the table and starting to make notes. “We’ll have you good as new before you know it. I think I know exactly how to make this better.”
I thought about the conversation with her sister earlier that week.
“She’s battled for so long, you see…” Her sentence trailed off as her lower lip began to tremble. “It’s really important that she finds herself again. I know it’s not supposed to be all about how a person looks, but she always had the most beautiful hair. And she would never go anywhere without having her nails done first… and her make-up was always immaculate. Even when she was on the beach… and she loved to travel. She’s been all over the world, you know. She never took time to breathe…” She gulped for air, realising what she had just said. “Always on the go… working, travelling, socialising … making the very most of life.”
I liked that phrase and I smiled. Making the very most of life.
I said some re-assuring things, nodding my head as she continued to talk about her sister as if she wasn’t here anymore rather than in the next room, waiting patiently for her make-over.
“I’ll do my very best for her,” I said. “You’ve come to the right place. We specialise in this area, as you know. And,” I took a breath, “I know how important this is for you all. I’ve had cancer myself…”
I always hated how that sounded when I said the words out loud. I’d said them a million times in my head like a warped record with the stylus stuck in a groove. Right from the time my oncologist had said them out loud, they had latched on like little leeches and starting sucking the blood and the life out of me as soon as they were let loose in the world. That’s how it felt anyway. He had given them a life of their own from that day.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” her sister said flatly. She was looking at me almost accusingly. I know she was finding it hard to feel empathy with someone who was standing in front of her looking like a picture of health, but it was my business to look polished.
I could see her surveying my head of glossy, auburn hair, cut into an immaculate bob that framed my perfectly made up face, brushed with a shimmering foundation that brought my cheeks to life. My lip gloss plumped my lips and my extra-length mascara made sure my eyes were framed with spidery lashes that almost whispered on my cheeks when I blinked.
I wanted to say to her, ‘listen, I’ve been that woman in the room next door and this is what I can do for her’, but I just hoped that she could hear my unspoken words. She narrowed her eyes, nodded her head and reached for her handbag, taking out a selection of photographs for me to look at – my make-over project looking her very best.
I took them from her, shook her hand gently and said I would call her when we had finished.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “She’s in very capable hands!”
I took an hour or so, with another cup of strong coffee, to look at the photographs she’d given me, conscious that I didn’t want to leave my lady for too long on her own. I had put some relaxing chill out music on to keep her company in my absence, and she was lying down in the next room.
The photographs were a fascinating insight into my lady’s life. She had worn her hair in similar fashion since she was a teenager by the looks of it, probably going just a little bit shorter later in life, but with long, lustrous locks that curled under just above her chest. She had amazing blue eyes, fringed with thick lashes and wore a heavy lid-liner that flicked up at the edges – that was a hard one to master! Her lips were never heavily painted but had a natural glow about them, not surprising as she was always smiling – a most beautiful, bright smile that showed how happy she was and how content she was with her life. She wore her hair up when she was travelling but that wouldn’t be appropriate for today.
I looked across at the outfit she had chosen, and then down at the box of jewellery she had brought with her. So much – a tangle of necklaces and earrings! She couldn’t decide what to wear with the outfit – it was a common problem. I could give her some advice on that. Her make-over was for a very special event, and she wanted to look her very best. It would mark an occasion celebrating that she had made the very most of her life.
I preferred silence when I worked. I looked at my selection of wigs – all natural hair, I couldn’t bear the feel of a synthetic wig – and I chose one which best matched the colour of her own hair. I could feel her nodding approval as I looked at a photograph of her when she had been travelling in Thailand, her hair loose over her shoulders as she sat on a deserted beach, hugging her knees as she looked out over the silvery blue ocean. I started to cut it to the right length, and used my curlers to re-create the way her own hair bobbed under. It took a while to master the similarities but I think I managed.
I studied more photographs to match her colour palette and gently mixed some translucent foundation with a darker hue to find the right tone of a sun-kissed tan. She never looked pasty in any of her photographs, and right now she looked like she hadn’t been kissed by any rays of sun for months. I worked slowly on applying her make-up, wiping away any traces of lines and wrinkles that had appeared as her cancer had progressed. She came to life as my fingers caressed her skin, and her cheeks began to fill out with a golden glow, her eyes danced back to life as the electric blue liner I chose sketched out the curve of her eye-lid. It was difficult getting the right flick at the corners of her eyes. I had to wipe and apply about three times, but I sat back with satisfaction at the third attempt, complementing the blue liner with a light sprinkling of mascara which painted the frame around her eyes. I chose pale pink for her lips, lined with a deeper shade which seemed to make her smile. Her eyebrows were more difficult. The chemotherapy had stripped them bare and I had to get a magnifying glass to study the curve and shape above her eyes in the photographs. It was important to get it right – it would change the entire shape of her face if I got this wrong. I sketched the curve out as best I could on paper before taking her face gently between my hands and running an eyebrow pencil along the curve of her brow, filling in and rubbing out as I worked, painstakingly adjusting the width and depth until I was satisfied that she didn’t look too surprised and that the lift was perfect.
She looked like her old self and I could see it bringing her back to life.
Lastly I moved to her nails and spent a while giving her a full pedicure. She hadn’t been a lover of spangles and talons. A neat French manicure completed the picture perfectly.
I helped her into her outfit. A vintage dress sprinkled with pale pink flowers and spring green leaves, lace at the collar, short sleeves, a feminine flow that folded around her frame, reminding me that after winter, spring brought new life to the world and everything that had seemingly died was brought back to life again. It was a comforting thought as I slipped a pair of flat, pink pumps on to her feet and adjusted her wig, flicking the hair to her shoulders and curling the ends under.
I rifled through the box of jewellery and found a beaded necklace, pink and green flowers carved out of wood and hand-painted by the look of it. I laced it around her neck and it seemed to flourish between her shoulder blades, the curl of her hair bringing out the strength of the colour.
I stepped back and admired her, looking again at the photographs arranged on the table in front of me. I looked at my watch. Just in time.
As I stepped out of the room, I saw her sister waiting with a man and two children – well, teenagers really by the look of them. They all looked like they’d been crying for an eternity. I stood by the door and beckoned them in, standing silently as they filed into the parlour one by one where my make-over model was waiting for them to see the woman she had once been, just one last time.
The woman she had been before she died, and before they buried her as she would want to be remembered.
THE END
Mags Winthrop Blog 