When I ran into Leyla on my way to the post office, I almost passed her by by. If she hadn't called out to me, in fact, I don't know if I would have recognized her. "Are you okay?" I asked, trying not to stare. She'd missed a week's worth of classes.
Leyla held a crumpled tissue in her hand. "I have cold," she sniffed, blotting her reddened nose.
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said automatically, trying to figure out what was different about her. True, she looked ill. Apart from her reddened nose, her jet-black hair, usually glossy and well-groomed, was pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. But something was very strange: she looked, if anything, better than usual. I couldn't figure this out.
And then it struck me: Leyla wasn't wearing any make-up. Her skin, usually buried under a layer of thick foundation, was pallid but luminescent. Her eyelashes, usually caked with mascara, were bare, but sufficiently black and thick. Even the line of her mouth was different without the bright red lipstick she invariably -- and lavishly -- wore.
The next week, Leyla's cold was better and she was back to class in full war paint. I'm an English teacher, not a fashion consultant, but I had all I could do not to take Leyla aside and beg her to throw out her make up. And I remembered Consuela.
Consuela and I worked in the same typing pool at an insurance company. Though she was only a few years older than I, Consuela already had two small children and for some reason, I had the idea that she was vastly older. One morning, she showed up for work harried and flustered; her babysitter hadn't shown up and she'd had a real struggle getting to work on time. "I look awful!" she muttered. "I'm really sorry."
Everyone in the office was stunned: Consuela didn't look awful; she looked like a million bucks. We all told her this.
"No way!" she wailed, both hands flying to her face. "I didn't have any time to do my make-up!"
And the minute she said it, we saw that this was true. For once, we could see Consuela's face without the usual clown's mask of thick make up she slathered on. We'd had no idea how pretty she was.
All morning long, Consuela cowered in shame, convinced that her lack of make up made her hideous. "Someone else go instead, please!" she begged when someone called and asked her to deliver a file. "No way can I go, looking like this!" Nothing we said made the slightest bit of difference.
The next day she showed up to work as usual, her face a smooth pink mask, her mouth a pouting, waxy coral, her eyelids a slick, shocking aqua under half-inch long false eyelashes. She looked ten years older and cheap as all get out, but she was happy and full of confidence, secure in the knowledge that she looked her best.
I don't wear much make up. I look so genuinely ridiculous in it that this is no hardship. But while I can smile and shake my head at women like Leyla and Consuela, I too have my masks -- comfort zone accoutrements that make me feel better about myself. And whether these are my facial expression -- self deprecatory grimace or serene Queen-of-England smile -- or the pair of trousers I'm convinced knock ten pounds off me, sometimes it's good to step back and take a good hard look.
I'm practicing my new smile right now. And I've got some trousers to take to The Salvation Army.
