I kept it in my underwear drawer. It was my cherished possession. When I knew that no one would interrupt me, I would get it out and smell it. The fragrance whispered to me in strangely sexual tones. It did not belong to me. That fact added to its mystery. I had lifted it discretely from my older sister. It was my first tube of lipstick.
To this day, the smell of certain tubes of lipsticks take me back to sweet, fresh years. My years of discovery. Moments of change and of awakenings. I have walked into fully furnished bedrooms at Estate Sales and the smell of old lipstick tubes and pressed powder overwhelms me. I feel a kinship to the woman who wore those colors. I sense the sweet, familiar aroma of a sister.
Like many women growing up in the early fifties, I struggled to find role models. Wearing lipstick seemed to be a universal tool. Powerful women, famous women, women in movies seemed to all know the secret of lipstick. Wearing it became a symbol of being a real woman.
My grandmother wore pink lipstick. If I close my eyes and become very still, I can visualize her laughing, lipstick laden mouth. When I was five years old my grandmother, we called her Honey, came to visit us from California. Time has not faded my first memory of her.
In the nineteen fifties, passengers used to deplane onto the runway from a transportable flight of stairs. It was in such a setting that I first saw her. As I watched her walk down the stairs from the plane, I believed she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
Honey wore her long, silver hair in a bun on the top of her head. Her bangs were curly and looked very soft. On this particular day, she wore a dark navy suit with shoes, high heels as I recall, dyed to match. Casually draped over her shoulders was a Persian lamb stole. I also noticed how tan Honey seemed to be and how she appeared to be laughing and talking excitedly on her way down the stairs.
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and smiled at me. I ran into her outstretched arms. Bending down to my level, she held my little face in her leather gloved hands. I smelled her Shalimar perfume and saw her dark pink lips. With those lips, she kissed me. From that moment on, I knew I wanted to be just like her. I wanted to have dark pink lips and smell like Shalimar.
I enjoy wearing Shalimar. There is a comforting sense to it. I also find it curious, that I have often been stopped by men and asked what fragrance I am wearing. Flattered, I tell them it's Shalimar. Then they smile knowingly and tell me that it's what their mother or grandmother wore. Perhaps it's better than reminding them of childhood pet rodent.
My Honey had an olive complexion. Pinks looked good on her. In fact, pink looks good on all the females in my family. The gene pool we all swam in, gave me a different coding. I am a natural red head with pale, freckled skin. This is a blessing I have learned to accept with labored grace.
Deep in my heart, I still want to be glamorous like Honey. When I shop for cosmetics, I hold out hope that one of these skilled, overly made up women will magically produce a tube of pink lipstick with my name on it. Most of the time, the associate gives me the same silver tube of brown lipstick. Truly, I could line up all the lipsticks I have purchased over the last couple of years and they are all the same shade of crayola brown. They have different names,cocoa raisin, honey soaked okra and one of my favorites, restless russet. In all my dreams of beauty and glamour, okra and raisins never figured into the picture. I wish I could wear those shades of Easter Bunny pinks.
Without the help of a professional, I have tried wearing forbidden shades of pink. The colors wash out my skin and make my teeth appear yellow; as if I had just eaten raw corn meal.
Now as I glide into my sixtieth year of life, the numerous journeys I've spent in pursuit of lip perfection are gracefully diminishing. I am discovering lasting beauty from other internal sources. I feel good with or without the waxy potion of beauty. My femininity has little to do with the contraband tube of bright, poppy kissed, honest to goodness, pink lipstick in my underwear drawer. It's just my escape hatch.