De Ce Monde Secret de l’ Amelie Americaine

During my second year at college I roomed with a Japanese major who sold Mary Kay cosmetics. I came back to our dorm room one afternoon to find her giving free facials and makeovers to three Japanese exchange students. They brought her gifts wrapped in silk, as was custom, and she demonstrated her latest product. They were trying to make new friends and she was trying to supplement her allowance.

I was determined to not fall prey to her machinations. She had already lured two of my friends into buying fifty dollars of makeup, and six weeks later, she still had not delivered. They were livid. Although she did study ever night until the wee hours, I also think she was hiding out in our dorm room to avoid them.

We loved poking fun at Jill…criticising her every move and snubbing her when we went out to eat. The peril of living in an all girl’s dorm is that it becomes a very caddy and cliquish place. Jill studied more than any of us, and on some level she was desperate to be our friend. She had tracked me down the previous year and all but begged me to be her roommate so that she wouldn’t be stuck with another unbearable stranger. My best friend at the time was already roomming with her sister, so I finally agreed.

Then one day in the fall semester of our sophomore year, I was stuck in our dorm room. Jill sat quietly at her desk, her head face down in a book. It was close to mid-terms and everyone was squirrelled away in their hiding places trying to catch up before their tests.

I couldn’t focus as usual. Jill stopped asking me why night after night I would leave my bed and end up asleep on the couch in the commons room with the television on. I’d return to our room before everyone awoke, no one the wiser. I looked tired and it wasn’t for the usual reasons.

“I don’t know how you do it.” I finally said, breaking the silence.

“Do what?” She asked.

“Study like you do and have no bags under your eyes.” I replied.

“My mother taught me how to take care of my skin.” She said. Her words hit a tender place. I imagined a middle aged woman in West Virginia with bleach blonde hair and Jill’s features, gayly teaching her how to properly wash her face.

She added,”And when that isn’t enough, I know how to put on makeup to hide it.”

Her words caused a small knot in my throat. Applying makeup properly was one of those corny rites of passage between mother and daughter that I missed out on. And I felt it all too acutely.

“I can show you.” She said cautiously. This wasn’t a sales pitch.

“Okay.” I gave in.

Over the next hour Jill showed me how to apply makeup, to bring out my eyes, cover the spots and bags, and yes, how to properly wash my face. I looked in the mirror. I didn’t recognize the old me. Instead I looked like another well put together co-ed from a proper family. What I saw brought tears to my eyes.

Jill asked, “Didn’t your mother teach you how to do this?” I shook my head no.

“I didn’t grow up with my mother.” I confided. This was true. My mother had left when I was eight years old. Since then no adult female in my life had ever been interested in showing me how to present myself as a woman. I had to figure these things out for myself with trial and lots of error. I dyed my haired, curled it to extremes, applied thick eye liner, ripped up my t-shirts, applied false nails, all in an attempt to find some definition of femininity that was my own. It was all guess work. I had no role model to work from.

“Why? Where is your mother?” She asked with genuine confusion. While I was very grateful for what she had given me, I was getting annoyed with her again.

I changed the subject. “Let’s go have dinner. I want to show off my face.”

That night at the pizza parlor, instead of averting my gaze, I looked directly into the eyes of the guy behind the counter. Jill noticed and smiled. Although I was a long way from feeling completely normal, it was a small start in the right direction.

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