Where’s the Rimmel
My mother kept her nails long and manicured all the 54 years I knew her. How she managed this while raising two girls, working long hours at the drugstore and cooking delicious pastries on weekends, was simply what grown up women did.
I can still see her sitting at the kitchen table by the east window that captured the best light in the house for putting on her makeup. The silver framed round mirror held up by a sugar bowl, coffee cup and ashtray on the side.
Face powder was applied with a little round cream-colored sponge, padding below her eyes, forehead, nose, around her mouth and cheeks. “Take off all the shine,” she’d say. As she gently rubbed rouge circles on her cheeks she would turn to one of us and ask, “Is it too much, parezco payaso?”
Next, she filled in her thin eyebrows with a dark pencil and put a little saliva on a tiny brush, rubbed against a black pad of Rimmel mascara carefully brushing, extending and thickening her eyelashes. As she stretched her lips over her teeth, she put on English Rose lipstick, matching the color of her nail polish. She looked at herself in the mirror and noticed she needed earrings, slipped on her rings and watch and was ready to go.
Oranges with Red Chile and Salt
When I was in grade school, I had one girl friend with whom I hung out, Carmen Gánem, Carmelita as her Tía Conchita called her. Her Mother Estela made the best refried beans, soft, runny and salty. I loved to go to Carmen’s house after school and have a bean burrito and a glass of milk. We lived behind her grandaunt’s house so we saw each other often after school. We walked together and talked, about school, our dresses, her brothers, my sister, while we ate oranges smothered with red chile and salt, or jicama con limón y sal .
Carmen had thick black eyebrows connected to each other, like Frida Kahlo’s, but furrier, long wavy hair she wore in braids and she was a little pudgy like little Lulu. We were in third or fourth grade. We didn’t care much what each of us looked like.
We went to the movies on Sundays, mostly American cowboy movies with subtitles that had nothing to do with our lives. There was a lot of talking and laughing and throwing palomitas around or spitting gum from the balcony down. We rode our bicycles around the block while Carmen talked. I was more of a listener, like my father, or so my mother says.
Just before the fifth grade, I left to Mexico City to have an operation on my leg and a year later when I came back Carmen had plucked and shaped her eyebrows, wore her hair medium short and she had developed a waist and boobs! It was the first time I noticed that she had blue eyes. My friend was beautiful - what a surprise. Carmen was now in sixth grade and I was still in fifth grade. I lost my classmates and gained my sister’s friends. It was not the same somehow - they seemed borrowed, not legitimate. Soon, I got used to them and even liked one or two, especially Irma. My sister and I visited her often. I was intrigued at the relationship of the young brother to his sisters. They did everything for him from ironing his shirts to serving him dinner. He did not reciprocate. I didn’t understand why Poncho got all these perks - he wasn’t that smart or cute.
My mother kept her nails long and manicured all the 54 years I knew her. How she managed this while raising two girls, working long hours at the drugstore and cooking delicious pastries on weekends, was simply what grown up women did.
I can still see her sitting at the kitchen table by the east window that captured the best light in the house for putting on her makeup. The silver framed round mirror held up by a sugar bowl, coffee cup and ashtray on the side.
Face powder was applied with a little round cream-colored sponge, padding below her eyes, forehead, nose, around her mouth and cheeks. “Take off all the shine,” she’d say. As she gently rubbed rouge circles on her cheeks she would turn to one of us and ask, “Is it too much, parezco payaso?”
Next, she filled in her thin eyebrows with a dark pencil and put a little saliva on a tiny brush, rubbed against a black pad of Rimmel mascara carefully brushing, extending and thickening her eyelashes. As she stretched her lips over her teeth, she put on English Rose lipstick, matching the color of her nail polish. She looked at herself in the mirror and noticed she needed earrings, slipped on her rings and watch and was ready to go.
Oranges with Red Chile and Salt
When I was in grade school, I had one girl friend with whom I hung out, Carmen Gánem, Carmelita as her Tía Conchita called her. Her Mother Estela made the best refried beans, soft, runny and salty. I loved to go to Carmen’s house after school and have a bean burrito and a glass of milk. We lived behind her grandaunt’s house so we saw each other often after school. We walked together and talked, about school, our dresses, her brothers, my sister, while we ate oranges smothered with red chile and salt, or jicama con limón y sal .
Carmen had thick black eyebrows connected to each other, like Frida Kahlo’s, but furrier, long wavy hair she wore in braids and she was a little pudgy like little Lulu. We were in third or fourth grade. We didn’t care much what each of us looked like.
We went to the movies on Sundays, mostly American cowboy movies with subtitles that had nothing to do with our lives. There was a lot of talking and laughing and throwing palomitas around or spitting gum from the balcony down. We rode our bicycles around the block while Carmen talked. I was more of a listener, like my father, or so my mother says.
Just before the fifth grade, I left to Mexico City to have an operation on my leg and a year later when I came back Carmen had plucked and shaped her eyebrows, wore her hair medium short and she had developed a waist and boobs! It was the first time I noticed that she had blue eyes. My friend was beautiful - what a surprise. Carmen was now in sixth grade and I was still in fifth grade. I lost my classmates and gained my sister’s friends. It was not the same somehow - they seemed borrowed, not legitimate. Soon, I got used to them and even liked one or two, especially Irma. My sister and I visited her often. I was intrigued at the relationship of the young brother to his sisters. They did everything for him from ironing his shirts to serving him dinner. He did not reciprocate. I didn’t understand why Poncho got all these perks - he wasn’t that smart or cute.