That’s what my mama always told me.
And yet, I watched her put on makeup every day.
But Mama didn’t need it.
Nothing on Mama needed to be changed.
It hurt that she didn’t agree with me.
She sat in her antique all white Victorian chair,
erect and proper as ever.
First the foundation which she applied three times over,
then the rose blush that she rubbed in small circles over her high cheekbones,
Cherry Wine eye shadow swiped over her eyelids,
next, five coats of black mascara separated her lashes,
and she finished the process with Plum lipstick.
Her black elbow length hair sat in a tight bun at the nape of her neck;
perfect and rigid as she.
Mama seemed to grow more weary as the days passed
by the ceremonious makeup routine.
I soon despised the substance that washed her self-esteem down the drain every day,
so I decided to teach them a lesson.
One by one I gave them all a new purpose.
I used the liquid foundation in my mud pies,
the powder blush I sprinkled on my play-dough cupcakes,
the eye shadow worked wonders in my pony picture;
I dipped a cotton swab in the mascara
and designed a dainty polka-dotted dress for my Barbie doll.
“Silly girl, do you know what you’ve done?!”
“You are beautiful Mama.
No cuts, bruises or scars on your face. What do you have to cover?”
She held me close and exhaled.
“The scars inside.”