by Ann B. Ross
LuAnne bustled back in, announcing that coffee was served at the dinette table, and we all moved back out of the bedroom. Nothing had gotten done except the emptying of LuAnne’s closet, but the serving of food and drink was always a part of any meeting of friends or committee members.
As we sat around the table, Hazel Marie kept us on point by suggesting that we all look at the veins on the insides of our wrists. “That will tell you if you have warm or cool undertones,” she said. “If they’re blue, then you’re a cool tone, but if they’re green, that means you’re a warm tone.”
“Green veins?” I asked, startled.
“Yes, well, at least greenish because the undertone of your skin will be peachy or golden. Look at LuAnne. She’s definitely a warm tone with that auburn hair and the warm, golden color of her complexion.”
Hm-m, I thought, how much did Velma have to do with that auburn hair? But then I conceded that LuAnne was merely keeping the same hair color she’d always had, just as many of us were doing.
“Miss Julia,” Hazel Marie said, as she turned my hand over to look at the prominently blue veins, “you’re a cool tone. See how the pink undertone of your skin comes out next to LuAnne’s golden tone?” She put down my hand and reached for Lauren’s. “Now, Lauren is also a cool tone, although her undertone isn’t as pink as yours.” She placed Lauren’s hand next to mine, and sure enough, my skin was noticeably pinker than hers—from my Scotch-Irish forebears, I supposed. “Lauren,” Hazel Marie went on, “seems to have more of a blue undertone, which is great—you’re all different, so we’ll be able to see how different colors affect the different skin tones.”
Lauren certainly needed some different colors, for she practically blended in with LuAnne’s cream-colored walls. Her clothes did not help because she was wearing a bulky sweater with pants, both in shades of ivory and cream, some of which matched the color of her hair.
Sitting next to her, I could see that her eyelashes were quite long, although they were so white that they looked more like fuzz than lashes. That was something so easy to fix that I wondered again why she didn’t do it, if indeed she had some religious reason for failing to do so. I had a great urge to snatch up a mascara brush and at least start on her face.
“Lauren,” I said, hoping for an answer to my wonderings, “I meant to say something to you the other night, and I apologize for failing to mention it. But we would love for you and the doctor to visit the First Presbyterian Church while you’re here. There’s a very active young adult Sunday school class that you might enjoy.”
“Oh,” she said, blushing, “well, I don’t know. It’s so hard to try new churches as much as we move around.”
“Perfectly understandable,” I assured her. “But if you ever want to try it, I’ll be happy to introduce you.”
That was probably the wrong thing to say, for it seemed the last thing Lauren wanted to do was to be the focus of new people.
Hazel Marie jumped in to help me. “My girls love their Sunday school class, Lauren. We’ll be glad to pick up your children if they want to go. I’ll make sure they get to the right class.”
Lauren nodded, then said, “Thank you. I’ll see what Don says.”
And that was the end of that.
* * *
—
When we finally got down to business, Hazel Marie went through LuAnne’s wardrobe like Sherman through Georgia. She flipped through the piles of clothes, discarding some, sorting others, and quickly putting together work-suitable outfits.
“LuAnne,” she finally said as she brushed a lock of hair from her face, “you could use two new white or cream blouses—not shirts, but blouses. Maybe one with ruffles or lace, and the other a plain silk one. I would also suggest a brown skirt and matching cardigan.”
“Brown!” LuAnne cried. “I never wear brown.”
Hazel Marie smiled. “I noticed. But brown is a good basic color for you, and you could use a nice brown suit for the days when the funeral home has a viewing of a notable person. I’d also suggest some yellows and oranges—nothing real bright, though. You could dress up, say, a cream sweater or blouse with a scarf in those colors. As for these red suits, most of them are too bright for you. This one here, though,” she said, holding up one of LuAnne’s favorites, “is a warm red, which works well for you, but I’d stay away from red entirely when you’re working. It just wouldn’t look right to grieving families. For spring and summer, I’d recommend a few things in ivory—that would look great on you—and in green, but a yellow-green, not anything deeper or brighter. Think earth tones, and you won’t go wrong.
“Also,” she went on, “I’d recommend that you not wear these high heels—they’re practically stilettos.”
“But I’m so short,” LuAnne almost wailed. “I need the height.”
“LuAnne,” I said, intervening with my opinion, “you don’t want to be on your feet all day long in those spiked heels. Get something comfortable.”
“But what?” she said. “I don’t want granny shoes.”
Hazel Marie smiled. “No, you don’t want old lady shoes, but wide, stacked heels are back in now, so if you look for some no more than one and a half or two inches high, they should be comfortable enough to wear all day. And look fashionable, too.”
“Well, okay,” LuAnne said, sighing, “I guess you’re right. But this is all going to cost a fortune.”
“Not really,” Hazel Marie said, snatching up a black skirt and a green-and-black-plaid jacket with a cream sweater underneath to show her. “You have some lovely pieces here already, so just a few more things in the right colors will give you a lot of options.”
“Well,” LuAnne said only half graciously, “I guess you’re right. But what about my makeup? Do I need to make any changes?”
“Yes, maybe a few.” Hazel Marie smiled, knowing she was treading on dangerous ground. “First thing, for your look at work, I’d not wear eye shadow. Save that for evenings or weekends. And I’d encourage you to use a soft brown eyeliner with a very light hand, and a coral blush. And you might try a lipstick with a brown tone, rather than pink.”
“Oh, my goodness,” LuAnne said, “I’ve been doing everything wrong!”
“No, not really,” Hazel Marie said in a comforting tone. “We can all wear exactly what we want to, but remember that you have to appear a certain way in your new job—so my suggestions come with that in mind.”
“You’re right,” LuAnne conceded, much more quickly than I’d expected. “I understand what you’re saying, and why. But would you show me how to do it? And tell me what to buy, because I don’t have any beauty products in the colors you recommend. Do me first, then Julia and Lauren if they want to. I can’t wait to see what you do with each of us.”
They Lord, I thought, as Lauren looked startled. Leave it to LuAnne to say exactly what she’d been told not to say. Nonetheless, she often said exactly what everybody thought, but who were more able to keep it to themselves than she was.
Chapter 18
*
Hazel Marie had brought her large cosmetic case that seemed to contain every color, shade, tint, and hue of facial enhancements known to cosmeticians and fashion editors alike.
She had LuAnne sit in front of a large mirror, then quickly redid her face in the correct colors, and even I could see the difference they made. LuAnne practically glowed not only from the applications, themselves, but also from her pleasure in the result.
“Oh, Hazel Marie, you are a genius!” she said, admiring herself in the large mirror and in the handheld one. “This looks great! I look great! How did you learn to do all this?”
“Oh, just fiddling around with various products and reading a little here and there,” Hazel Marie said in her modest way. “I love doing it.”
“Well, you certainly know what you’re doing,” LuAnne said, popping up off the chair. “Let me write
down everything so I’ll know exactly what to buy. Here, Lauren,” she said, taking Lauren’s arm, “sit right here and let the expert go to work on you.”
I almost gasped aloud for fear that Lauren would be offended, but she docilely and only slightly hesitantly sat down in front of the mirror.
“I used to wear a little makeup,” she almost whispered, “but then the children, well, you know, they take up so much time. I guess I’ve just let it go.”
“Oh,” Hazel Marie said in an offhand way, “that’s so easy to do, isn’t it? But I think we owe it to our husbands to take care of ourselves, don’t you?”
“I guess,” Lauren mumbled, “but Don doesn’t like too much makeup on a woman. He says it cheapens her.”
“Well,” Hazel Marie said, as if Don’s opinion was of little concern, “we’ll just do it so light and natural looking that he won’t even notice. Except to think that you look especially nice.”
Then she proceeded to sponge a light foundation on Lauren’s face, along with a tinge of pink blush on her cheeks. With a remarkably sure hand, Hazel Marie filled in Lauren’s eyebrows with a light pencil and made a very fine gray line around her eyes. Then, as a finishing touch, she brushed mascara on Lauren’s lashes.
“Now, look,” she said, stepping back. “See how that brings out the gray in your eyes? And watch this.” Hazel Marie draped around Lauren’s neck a succession of colored scarves, one after the other, some in jewel tones and some in pastels. And I’ll tell you what’s a fact—the woman was a raving beauty—and her hair hadn’t even been done.
“My gracious, Lauren,” LuAnne said, almost but not quite speechless as she expressed her admiration. “You are lovely. I mean, I’m sure you always were, but now, well, now. . . . Hazel Marie, tell me what you’ve been reading so I can learn how to do that.”
Lauren, it seemed, was as taken with her new look as we were. She kept looking in the mirror, turning her head from side to side, and smiling with pleasure. Her eyes sparkled, she sat up straight, and she spoke with less diffidence than she usually did.
“Oh, thank you, Hazel Marie,” she said. “I didn’t realize what a difference it would make. You’ve made me look so nice. I just wish I could do it myself.”
“You can,” Hazel Marie assured her. “Soon it’ll become second nature. But on your real busy days, if you’ll just do your eyebrows and lashes, and dab on a little blush, you’ll be more than ready to face the world. But don’t forget to always moisturize first.”
I had watched all this in silence, but I, too, had been stunned by the remarkable transformation. Hazel Marie had changed a washed-out, sickly looking woman into a vibrant, glowing model of health and beauty.
“And now,” LuAnne exclaimed, “let’s do hair. I need a new hairdo, Hazel Marie, something professional looking, but easy to maintain and that I can do myself.”
Hazel Marie laughed as she replaced cosmetic jars and tubes in her case. “Sorry, LuAnne, we’ll have to do hair another time. I’ve got to pick up the girls at preschool, and I’m about to be late.”
So we quickly got into our coats and, bidding LuAnne good-bye with our thanks, we went our separate ways.
* * *
—
All afternoon I marveled at what Hazel Marie had wrought with a few carefully chosen beauty products and wondered why Lauren hadn’t discovered them herself. Especially since she’d admitted to having worn makeup in her younger days. Girls, it seemed to me, began to experiment with cosmetics in high school (or sooner if their parents were lax), so that they gradually became expert in the selection and application of what looked best on them. Somewhere along the line, Lauren had hit a bump in the road and failed to continue learning how to make the best of herself. It was as if she’d eschewed any enhancement of her natural blessings and had deliberately chosen to blend into the woodwork.
A lot of young women let themselves go once they’re married and have children underfoot. They seemed to see no reason to go to the trouble of fixing their hair in an attractive way or of doing anything to their faces. And, of course, adding a few more pounds and wearing loose clothing occasionally accompanied the loss of interest in their appearance. I knew, because I’d seen them in grocery stores or on the sidewalk downtown, usually trailed by stair steps of little children.
But it didn’t seem to me that Lauren was in that category, or at least that she didn’t have to be. Her husband certainly made a good living—she could’ve had help with the children and with her house if she’d wanted it. She could’ve easily bought the necessary cosmetics—drugstores were full of reasonably priced items. In other words, she had the time and the means to keep herself attractive. In fact, if Hazel Marie had done Lauren’s hair and dressed her in clothes that fit both her frame and her coloring, she would have been even more striking. And because of Hazel Marie’s magical touches, we had also caught a brief sight of a warm personality.
So I didn’t understand where the extreme diffidence about her looks and her manner had come from. I wondered just why Lauren appeared to make every effort to look unattractive—why in the world would anyone do that? But, of course, it was not my problem. Far be it from me to interfere with someone else’s choices, whether it be the shade of lipstick or the clothes or the entire manner of life one chose. Every woman for herself, I always say, although if my opinion was ever sought I’d be more than happy to give it.
* * *
—
A day or so later, LuAnne called to say that she’d like to drop by for a few minutes.
“Of course,” I said. “Come on by. I’m doing nothing but wondering if spring will ever come.”
When she got to my house, I led her to the library, where a fire was burning in the fireplace. She plopped down on one of the facing Chippendale sofas and blew out her breath as if she’d run a mile.
“Whew,” she said, “I’ve been buying cosmetics, and I’ll tell you the truth, there’s so much to choose from I don’t know if I’m coming or going.”
“I thought you’d written down what Hazel Marie recommended.”
“I did! But just the shades, not the manufacturers. Julia, there’s Estée Lauder and Lancôme and Bobbi Brown and Elizabeth Arden, and that’s just in the department stores. You go to a drugstore and there’s Maybelline and Revlon and L’Oreal and a dozen others that I’ve never heard of. But,” LuAnne said with a wave of her hand, “that’s not what I want to talk about. Now, Julia, you know I love Hazel Marie to death and I value her advice more than I can say. But I went by to see her yesterday to ask her a little more about the kinds of clothes I should wear.”
“Oh,” I said, “I thought that was pretty well decided. I mean, you want to look professional, which to me means classic styles like skirts and jackets with blouses or sweaters. You can’t go wrong with that kind of look.”
“Yes, you’re talking about what we used to call the preppy look. That was back in our college days, and as far as I can tell it went out years ago.” Then leaning forward, LuAnne said, “Let me ask you something, Julia. What news channel do you watch?”
“News channel?” I frowned at the seeming switch of subject, then rose to take a tray of hot spiced tea and sugar cookies that Lillian brought in. “Thank you, Lillian. It smells wonderful.”
After speaking to LuAnne, Lillian left us to continue a conversation that seemed to be heading in a strange direction.
Taking the mug of hot tea I offered her, LuAnne said, “Well, tell me. What do you watch most of the time?”
“I guess it would be Fox News. Sam turns it on, so I get caught up in it for the rest of the day. Unless I turn it off until six o’clock.”
“Exactly!” LuAnne said. “That’s what I watch, too. Now, don’t tell me that you haven’t noticed the way those women dress. Even the ones who’re anchors and have their own programs. Julia, have you ever seen so many tight dresses or so much expos
ed skin? Half of them wear those cut-out dresses that show shoulders and upper chests, and the other half wear dresses that’re cut so low that they reveal a definite cleavage. In other words, traditional, classic clothes are O-U-T, out.”
“But, LuAnne . . .”
“I know, I know,” she interrupted. “Hazel Marie doesn’t recommend that kind, but maybe she hasn’t kept up with the times, either. Now I know that those Fox women are younger than I am and slimmer, too. But I’m not entirely over the hill, and it seems to me that, being in the front office as I will be, that I ought to wear the current styles.”
“Well, LuAnne, an office in a funeral home is not exactly like being on national television. Besides, those women are probably dressed by a professional wardrobe mistress or some such, and what they wear may be decided by higher-ups. They may not have any choice at all.”
“That’s my point,” LuAnne said, sitting primly upright. “I do have a choice, and I think I should follow the current styles, which include cut-outs, tight skirts, and deep decolletage. Just watch the other channels, and you’ll see they’re all doing it—it’s the in thing these days.”
“I don’t know, LuAnne. Haven’t you noticed the irony of sexily clad women bemoaning some man’s inappropriate behavior? Now, wait,” I said, holding up my hand as she started to reply, “I know that doesn’t excuse the men who paw at every woman within reach, and I know it sounds as if I’m saying that the women ‘ask for it,’ but it looks strange to me for a woman with her bosom practically hanging out to act like she’s shocked—actually, hurt—when a man takes it as a come-on.”
“I think you have it all wrong, Julia,” LuAnne said, somewhat defensively. “You just haven’t kept up with things.”
“Maybe not, and I may well have it wrong. Maybe the day will soon be here when women can wear bikinis to work and men won’t even notice. But I’ll tell you this, LuAnne. The only person you have to please on your new job is the one who hired you. Do you think that he—or she—would be pleased to have a Playboy Bunny in the front office of a funeral home?”