Black Cat Journal

“the point of makeup, is to look as though you don’t need any” the plasticene woman says to me through the television. her perfectly white teeth framed by glossy red lips and even though her overly rouged cheeks glow in the sickly green fluorescent lighting, i believe her. i almost reach for the phone to order my very own supply of cosmetics, which come in a convenient carrying case, with separate pouches for each area of your face.

i consider my reflection in the bathroom mirror. the three lit bulbs remaining out of five do a decent job of illuminating my visage. the reflective paint chips in the corners, and the stains of shower fog and toothbrushing overspray make a sort of movie star diffused frame. i poke at my nose, my cheeks, my lips, and my eyebrows. what could i tweeze tonight? what type of miracle cream should i use before bed? i grab the small freebie cosmetics case (you know, the ones that come with a purchase of over $25) i riffle through my massive expanse of makeups. two mascaras, two lipsticks, one case of eyeshadow, and one tube of shimmery eyelights. wow. massive.

of all those items i only bought one mascara and the shimmery eyelights… the rest? oh well, those came with the free case.

i smear some of the shimmery gunk over my eyes… yes.. that’s lovely. a bit of eyeshadow here, a swipe or two of mascara. lipstick? don’t mind if i do. the whole process takes all of two minutes. hey, whatdya know. i don’t look as though i’m wearing any makeup… so what the hell did i spend $25 on?

i sigh and decide to brush my hair. maybe i can tame it tonight. i have visions of standing in a circus tent, a whip in one hand and a chair in the other, back, back i say to the unruly and relentless waves of my mutt hair. the mix, i decide, is the cause for it’s uppity-ness. it defies me every day and in every way. pin it up and it shakes loose. pull it back and with stunning expertise it squirms out to fall into my coffee. leave it alone and well, lets just say no one is safe when i leave it down.

looking at myself i sigh. i sit down on the side of the tub and contemplate myself. and as always, i feel myself drifting down and away, into dreams, memories, of another house, another state, a lifetime away.

my mother would take upwards of half an hour to an hour. in the secret confines of the master bath. i would hear the jangle of tubes, the thump of jars, the clink of jewelry and the misting sound of perfume. the cords i could hear, and sometimes imagine, hitting the counter, snaking out of the wall into my mother’s hands. where is she going? the grocery store? you’re kidding me. she would say that you never knew who you would see at the grocery store, you’d want to look your best if you could.

on the days when she left the door open i would wander in. in from playing in the dirt, the grass, the sun, the clouds, all left a fresh innocent scent on my skin. i would sit on the tub and watch. mesmerized. in awe. fascination. fear. would i have to do this one day?

i watch as she conceals small blemishes left from her days in the rice patties, or from tending siblings along the clong, or from walking the dusty roads between houses, villages, families. i stare as she uses foundation. foundation. for what? a house, some structure built atop her skin to attract, detract, to enhance with it’s architecture this tiny woman who still to this day instills fear in my friends.

she powders. plucks. shadows. lines. fills in. glosses. and to my horror she curls her lashes. this medieval device clamps down upon her lashes and batters them into shape. she curls them and subsequently she curls her hair and mine. not with that torture device, but with others, and foul smelling chemicals. hours spent in this hell of sitting still while my hair is pulled and wound tight around foam and paper. pinned down with chemicals. forced into something more american. as if these permanent curls would somehow mask the asian in me. in someway make us both fit in more. hide the almond eyes and tan skin in the dead of winter.

as if the chemicals in my hair would cover the smell of ginger, garlic, red chilies, and curry powder. somehow the perm would make me red white and blue. i sometimes thought that after it was all washed out i would look in the mirror and see blue eyes and blond hair. i was disappointed when it was still dirt brown eyes and coal hair. for years i suffered this injustice. the curls would relax and my curry hair would be free once more. only to be mangled back into bouncy american coils three months down the line.

my best friend. she’s vietnamese. never had to deal with the perms. her hair is stick straight. a thick black waterfall dares anyone to even try to curl it. she hates it at times. wishes it would behave and curl. i smile, tell her it’s better this way. i remind her of the endless perms. the only way to defy my mother and her hopes for passing me off as american was to finally say no. no to the perms. to the strange chemicals and papers and foam and pins. to one night in normal teen angst, take silver scissors, grab the mass of offending asianity, and cut.

of course as all things will happen, she loved it. my mother. she loved my hair short. shorter. i could do nothing to anger her. not with my hair. i didn’t realize until now, sitting on a porcelin tub thousands of miles away from her and from the homes we lived in, that this outrage, this rebellion, this act of anger was in itself american. i could chop my hair off, wear all black, black makeup, i could wear my brother’s clothes to school, ink my hands, pierce my ears, duct tape my shoes. i could do all of this, because i was american.

she had succeeded. not with the curls. but she had succeeded nonetheless.

damn it.

sighing, i stand from the porcelin tub, emerge from my reverie, my reminiscing, my past. i shake my head and wonder if perhaps i should buy a curling iron, or one of those eyelash curlers. just for old times sakes.

nah. but damn it all if i’m not gonna go make me some yellow curry.