A skin eruption of gi-normous proportions has taken up residence on my face. I think it's from the glue on the nasal strips I use at night for my allergies (okay, snoring). The breakout is so large I'm sure it needs its own zip code. In honor of this moment I'm posting an essay I wrote years ago about a similar issue my mother had. Adult acne - ain't it grand?
Beauty and the Breach
“Hold your breath now,” my mother said as she sprayed a shower of White Rain over her bouffant. When it was safe to uncover my face and breathe again I asked, “Where are you going?” “A Lady May* party,” she answered.
“What’s that?” “Well, my friend, Susan is having a party at her house and a woman from Lady May cosmetics will be there and we will all get to put on make-up and learn which products are right for our skin and which ones will bring out our true beauty.”
“Oh.” She lost me. I was too young to care about make-up so I went off to do my homework.
The next morning at breakfast, I noticed several jars lined up on the table. I sensed she was anxious to show off her purchases. “Is this your new make-up?”
“Yes,” she floated over to the table with her arm outstretched like a game show hostess, “the first three jars are the three step system: cleanse, tone and moisturize.” “Eeeeew, it smells like old lady perfume!” She ignored me in favor of the sales spiel.
“I also bought the foundation, eye shadow, rouge, mascara and lipstick.” I wondered why she bought all the make-up. My mother had never worn make-up since I’d known her and that was my entire life.
She scooped up all her new cleansing products and placed them in order of use in the medicine cabinet. The make-up went into the drawer below the sink and that was the official start of my mother’s new beauty routine: cleanse, tone, moisturize and colorize.
She became a new woman, a born again Lady May convert. Her skin began to glow with a newfound luster and when she wore a full face of make-up she looked like a beauty queen. There was a spring in her step. She looked and felt so beautiful right up until the day my Dad asked, “What’s that?” pointing at her forehead. “What?” my mother tensed and ran to look in the mirror. “Oh,” her terror subsided as she gave a little titter, “they told us this might happen. It’s just a little pimple,” she said as she ran her fingers over the bump above the bridge of her nose. “It’s the impurities working their way out of my skin that’s all.” So she continued her new beauty regimen: cleanse, tone, moisturize and colorize.
Each day the impurities continued to surface and they all seemed to be going to that one spot. We tried to be polite and not stare directly at the eruption but it was really hard not to. Every time you talked to her, there it was again gaining size and impurities. I began getting anxious about having conversations with my mother. I’d ask, “Daddy, can I go out and play with Chris?” And he’d reply, “Go ask your mother.” “Daddy please don’t make me. You go ask her.” “No way.”
My mantra during that time became the same one I was taught in school for an eclipse “don’t stare directly into it.” I wondered in silence if it would be safe to look at the eruption through a pinhole in a shoebox. I feared the pimple might hypnotize me in some way as if it had a mind of its own. . .a very devious mind. What if it made me grow up to join the band of crazed Lady May followers? I feared a loss of control over my own mind.
Once the pimple reached gargantuan proportions my mother was forced to seek new methods to rid herself of what had become her unwanted “growth.” The Lady May spell had finally been broken. I said a silent prayer of thanks. Mother lay on the bed with a warm washcloth over the alien being growing out of her forehead while my father, always the one to comfort in times of crisis yelled, “Hey kids, get in here and take a look at your mother’s third eye.” My two younger brothers and I gathered around the bed for a closer look. It was certainly a solemn occasion. Should someone call a priest? Wait a minute; we were Southern Baptists perhaps a snake handler then. My heart began pounding at the thought of the unveiling. My mother peeled away the warm washcloth and there it was, the world’s largest pimple. She couldn’t even sit up it was giving her such a headache. I gasped in spite of myself and took a step backward almost knocking over my youngest brother. “Hey, watch it I’m trying to get a good look.”
“Can you tell the future with that third eye?” Geez, Dad had absolutely no pity. “Get out,” my mother yelled completely missing the humor in the situation. She covered the pimple with the warm cloth and rolled toward the wall. Dad ushered us out of the room and told us to stay away from her for a while. “Yeah, well you’re the one who started it with the whole third eye thing.” We had to cover our mouths to keep from busting out laughing.
It was several weeks before my mother felt confident enough to leave the house again. Her forehead healed over nicely and there remained no sign of the malevolent eruption. Except for the occasional swipe of lipstick my mother has never worn make-up again. And as far as the three step cleansing system, well, that went straight in the garbage before anyone else could ask if she could see into the future.
*Name changed, of course.
