Defying the DNA of Estée and Mary Kay

Most women I know pledge allegiance to a certain brand of makeup. There’s the brand-happy Clinique types, the crunchy Origins women and the suburban Mary Kay ladies. Then there’s me, the one who buys what’s on sale or even (gasp!) goes without makeup whenever possible.
    It’s incredible that I missed the boat on makeup loyalty, considering my roots in beautification run deeper than mascara down cheeks during a viewing of The Notebook.
    The first time I camped with my parents, I remember seeing Mother’s packing list for the weekend trip to North Carolina’s Linville Gorge. Sleeping bags? Check. Tent? Check. Makeup bag? Double check.
    Mother went nowhere without her pink make-up bag. Brimming with cakey brown foundation, rouge and eye shadow colors never occurring in nature, and an assortment of pencils, brushes and spatulas to rival Van Gogh’s, the bag was a constant companion.
    I recall my bewilderment at Mother’s makeup bag, wondering why one would lacquer her face in the woods unless they were into camouflage. But to Mother, it’s only right to venture out into public — or the wilderness — in full-face makeup, masked in a painted portrait of prettiness for wherever the day takes you, be it to Kroger or the campsite.
    Since forever, Mother purchases all of her makeup from Mary Kay, that beauty product institution that makes America the great country it is. She has a loyal Mary Kay salesperson, her friend of more than 30 years. Rouge is Mother’s crack, and Mary Kay is her dealer of choice.
    Mother isn’t the only woman in my family to have a makeup addiction. My late paternal grandmother also never saw the light of day without a painted face, but her preference was Estée Lauder, the notorious benefactor of the “free gift with purchase.”
    Dedicated to her Estée Lauder fix, Grandmother visited Belk’s department store twice a month. Her favorite makeup counter girl invited Grandmother to her wedding, and in turn Grandmother’s Estée Lauder gals came to her 90th birthday celebration.
    Grandmother applied her makeup the moment her feet swung off of her bed each morning. Swathed in her little pink nightgown, she pitter-pattered to her bathroom, retrieved her make-up bag, jumped back into bed, grabbed her hand mirror and, in a matter of minutes, slathered, smothered and covered herself in the Estée Lauder collection.
    No matter her aged hands couldn’t quite apply the makeup just so — lipstick askew and eye shadow smudged beyond the lids. She may have colored outside of the lines, but Grandmother was a self-made fashion plate for sure.
    In childhood I played dress-up in Grandmother’s little black dresses and elbow gloves, smearing Estée Lauder pink lipstick on my lips and dotting Youth Dew in the crook of my elbows. In high school, I relied on Grandmother’s cast-offs and the tubes of Mary Kay foundation my mom slipped into my Easter baskets and Christmas stockings. I never shopped for makeup, as I had two women who gladly shared their wares, hoping to suck in another addict.
    Their gifting continued into college, when I always looked forward to Mary Kay mailers from Mother and trips to see Grandmother to ransack her bathroom closet for the unclaimed moisturizers and eyeliners.
    The freebies continued until three years ago when Grandmother died suddenly of a heart attack. As Mother and I cleaned out Grandmother’s house, I rifled through countless makeup bags, near-empty perfume bottles and tubes of lipstick tucked away throughout her house.  Sadly, I realized there would be no more free Estée Lauder lotions or mascaras. If I wanted it that badly, I’d have to buy it myself.
    So I haven’t. If I’m in a department store or I see an Estée Lauder ad, my heart aches a little, knowing I’ll never see that crooked, lipsticked smile again. I don’t linger at the Estée Lauder counter. That was Grandmother’s place, not my own.
    And, Mother somehow decided a year ago that I’m old enough to buy my own makeup now. At age 26, for the first time in my life, I had no makeup in the house. It was a crisis — I didn’t know how where to start. So I found myself at the most inelegant of retailers: CVS. I selected a random bottle of foundation and a tube of colored lip gloss. I went home and applied the makeup.
    I looked back at myself in the mirror noting an absence of blue eye shadow, a lack of black liner rimming my eyes, no clown cheeks covered in red rouge. I smiled. So this is what it’s like, to be fully grown, sans elbow gloves and Youth Dew, no Mary Kay to fall back on.
    I may not have the beauty obsession of other women in my family, but at least I know my genetic make up, and it’s quite beautiful.