make-up is hard to do

             The bride had been my best friend for close to a decade. Neither friends nor family expected her to marry so soon, or to have the kind of wedding she had. In fact, I was the one who'd spent many years engaged, while she dated a multitude of men, and slept with some others; she made me promise that when my wedding came around, I'd let her choose her own dress, so she could wear it again, and that I'd always keep a spare room for her in the house my fiancÈ and I were planning to have custom-built. I left him and the imaginary house; a few years later she met a man at a Jewish singles' event, then agreed to marry him a scant few months later. I was kind of horrified; I felt like a child who's being left behind.

             I got to pick my own dress, so I made her change the color scheme from forest green (which she has enough of in her new, color-coordinated kitchen) to black and white, because I'd never wear that color in real lifeóit would make me look sallow. The dress I happened upon by pure luck and after much worry, which meant I only needed to find shoes and a gift. I figured I was pretty much set. Ah, how naive I was...

             She insisted that I remove all traces of hair from my legs, claiming that this would be my true gift to her (I guess the pricey set of two hand-blown, colored wineglasses wasn't enough, if Iíd known what she really wanted, I wouldíve saved my money for a professional waxing); I hadn't shaved my legs since December 31, 1988, and I didn't really care to just to keep people from being offended by my anklesóthe only part left visible by my cotillion-length dress (but cloaked by stockings). I didn't mind doing away with the pit hair, but the legs, wellóI decided to wax them (which is another story altogether, as I'm a do-it-yourselfer), since I didnít relish the frequent shaving which would be required until the cold season arrived (I hate stubble). I agreed, and I didn't whine (at least not to her); she did continue to remind me of my depilatory duties up until the last minute, though, as if my body hair could curse her marriage entirely.

             I told her that I would not  wear make-up. I'd told her that all along. I don't like to wear it, and I feel no need to hide behind a mask (of that sort) prior to presenting myself publicly. But on the way back from the final fitting of the wedding dress (at Kleinfeld's, bridal centralóalso another story in itself), she and her mother started in on me. I needed to smooth out my skin, and get rid of the bags under my eyes, and wear lipstickóher mother went so far as to suggest blush and mascara, although the bride most benevolently released me from those paint-pots. Hey, I protested, people aren't even going to be looking at me, they're going to be looking at the brideónobody looks at the maid-of-honor. The bride turned on me with vehemence, claiming that I'd be up there longer than her parents or anyone else in the party, and people would tire of looking at her dress. Her mother, trying to be helpful, said that I might look pretty in makeup. At that point, I pretty much ceased to want anything to do with a decade-old friend who didn't think me presentable in a nice dress and heels to stand in front of friends and family. Why didn't they just rent a maid of honor, if that's the way she was going to be? I was confusedóI like me as I am, and I thought you liked me this way, too, so what's missing from this picture? (Actually, I'm not all that fond of myself, but I don't really care how I look, as long as I have a good haircut. A good haircut is the key to everything, and for this wedding my hair was longer than 3/4 inch for the first time in several yearsóI was wearing barrettes, for god's sake.)

            The whole wedding had gotten out of hand long before. She was registered for dozens of kitchen appliances at no less than four places, as well as for everyday china and silver and "good" placesettings (which ran $200 a set, and they got twelve settings, plus extensionsóand this stuff was ugly, too). Weíd regularly make the rounds of all the biggest and best NJ malls to check on the progress of her wish list. New words entered her vocabulary, like "diamond white" and "sorbet intermezzo" (served between the salad and main course to cleanse the palate). Her parents took out an equity loan on their house to pay for the event. Her dress was priceyóat least it seemed that way to me. The dinner had a dozen courses (which is why we didn't get to the main course until 1am). Everyone who knew her was shocked by the elaborate ordeal she'd chosen to undertake. Personally, I've never been too keen on ceremonies, especially not those that involve me, but she's my best friend, so I decided to indulge her and get some makeup.

            Now, I used to wear the stuff, I admit. At some point, along with the shaving, it became too much trouble; I'd rather sleep in or read a book than put on mascara and eyeliner, and I'd never been a lipstick-wearer; Blistex is more my speed. Last time I wore makeup was for a Halloween gypsy fortune-teller costume; the job I did on my face at that time was quite similar to my former Siouxsie Sioux look, beauty skills that are patently inappropriate for this type of wedding--óI'd heard that the Gothic look was out for bridal attendants this year. So I schlepped myself to the Prescriptives counter at Macyís.

             Why not Maybelline? Why not ask Max? Why contribute to the cosmetic industry at the high end? Max wouldn't help me pick out stuff that looks good, and I've always been partial to those full-service, pricey makeup counters. Sure, it was foolish, but I got a sample of perfume and a free full-sized mascara (which I'll never use, because I'm always rubbing my eyes), and that all-important, and entertaining, personal attention.

             I told the black-smocked girl, in no uncertain terms, that I hate to wear makeup, but I'm a maid-of-honor, so I'd need powder and lipstick. She and her other black-smocked cronies were puzzled and disturbed when I told them that I feel just fine without makeup, unlike my mother, who showers and does her face prior to going to the gym to work out. Don't you care about covering your blemishes? she asked. Only the really big, painful ones that can't be popped, I replied, and those are impossible to camouflage. (Oh, the horror.) She explained that she doesn't much care for makeup, herself, but she likes to cover up her skin's discrepancies so that she can feel good about herself when she goes out, and she admitted to loving lipstick. While we're talking, she's spreading lines of something on my cheek, out of different bottles, and ordering me to watch what she's doing in the mirror, explaining that the one that doesn't "turn" will reveal the nature of my all-important undertone--the key to unlocking the colors that are Right for Me. We had to go through two cheeks' worth to get my undertone down, and then she swabbed the color-oracle from my face with an alcohol-free cleanser (better for one's skin than soap), and whipped out a little tube. The tube contained camouflage cream, because even if I could live with my two zits and the faint birthmark on my forehead, referred to by the bride as my "devil's mark" (it gets bright-red when I'm being wicked), she couldn't let me walk out of there without covering them upófor her own sake. She also went at the bags under my eyes, then pulled the whole snow job together with powder. I nodded my acceptance, and she moved on to the lips.

             She tried many colors of lipstick on my hand, guided by my undertone, of course, and my request for something not too obvious. I found something barely acceptable, and she put it on, and then she began to get carried away. She whipped out a lip pencil, explaining that I didn't have to do this, but I have such nice lips, and look how much better-defined the pencil renders them. Sure, they look nice and pointy, but the pencil is really more than I can deal with, I explained, being as nice as I could manage to be, under the circumstances. So I hit her up for free stuff, handed over my credit card for the $50 worth of makeup (yes, that's right, I only got three thingsópretty goofy, eh?), and walked out of that place.

             The bride was home when I got there; I made sure she liked my face, then  wiped that stuff right off.

             No-one could see the lipstick, so it only made my lips feel frozen, and made me feel self-conscious about drinking. The wedding was held at night, in an ill-lit room at a luxury, historic hotel (which had douche in the ornate cabinet in the lobby, in case one had a douche emergency during one's stayóI was tempted to order one up to my room, just because I could), so my blemishes, such as they were, were hidden by shadow, and my devil's mark by my bangs. The camouflage cream was ultimately the most helpful, because that hickey on my neck really pissed the bride off, what with my bare shoulders, and all...I told her that I'd deserved it, because I bit first.

             On second thought, don't let your babies grow up to be bridesmaids.