Saturday, February 26, 2005

Cover Girl

Sound rules. Certain noises always tendril around my spine when they meet me: the clop of horse hooves against a cold mountain stream, Saturday morning rain on the roof, the high sweet squeak of Dan Rather’s chair wheeling away from the anchor desk.

Let us also not forget The Makeup Noise, which is entirely the reason I became a woman when I grew up. The Makeup Noise is created when blush and eyeshadow and lipstick and foundation all clack together, constantly offering toasts to femininity in a lined little pouch. I place them there, I transfer the lot to a larger, even further accessorized bag, and I Am Female. Cosmetics: Even the name snaps along like the assured click of high heels. It is the loud rustle of ladydom, and care must be taken to collect the proper ingredients.

The face of any self-respecting woman over the age of fourteen should never resemble a kindergarten art project, which is why when I was in need of eye shadow I took my pushing-thirty self to that paragon of refined female adornment, Claire’s. Because when elegance matters, you should align yourself with the mall’s most prominent outlet of lime green butterfly earrings and multicolor hair glitter.

I outgrew Claire’s at least two graduations ago, which I plan to openly admit as soon as I stop looking for interview attire in the prom dress section of the Junior's department. I am constantly gratified to find that things are exactly the same as they were when I was in high school, if you ignore the fact that the stores never seem to stock banana clips and all the clothes are inspired by the Frederick’s of Hollywood Back-To-School Line and nobody knows who C+C Music Factory is.

There are also phones. They all have cell phones, these girls, and their primary function is to spread “like” throughout the land. I sat cross legged on the floor, a position which required me to go oof when I assumed it. I assessed my need for lime green sparkly mascara as around me flowed a by-Verizon therapy session.

Jasmine, it seemed, was experiencing a crisis of universe-altering proportions.

”Well, what did he say exactly? Was he like, ‘I don’t want to go,” or was he like, ‘I don’t think I want to go?... Jasmine! Jasmine, don’t cry!”

”Tell her she’s got us.”

“Jasmine, Ashley says you’ve got us.”

“Tell her he sucks.”

“Ashley says he sucks.”

I stared at a stack of light purple eyelash curlers: This was pathetic. When I was this age, my biggest concerns spun like the display rack before me through a regular cycle of attempted acne banishments, a losing struggle to develop basic driving skills, and unsuccessful publication attempts. Well. It’s certainly a good thing I’m--

Oh.

Crap.

“Jasmine! I told you, don’t worry, you’re in different homerooms. Wait, Ashley wants to talk.”

“Jasmine. Listen to the sound of my voice, Jasmine.”

I picked out two cakes of metallic eye shadow and a bottle of hot pink body glitter, both of which will serve me well at the next faculty meeting. They clacked together in the little plastic bag.

powdering at: blondechampagne@hotmail.com

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