Third CNF Assignment
Compared to the other saleswomen working behind the Clinique cosmetics counter, Cathy is wearing very little make-up: just a sheer line of pale pink eye shadow hugging her lashes and a small amount of black mascara. She is in her late forties, short and plump. Her shoulder-length bobbed hair is between blond and grey, and her highlights are tasteful. Her eyes are kind looking, and her smile is warm. Cathy is like a mother not only to her own nineteen-year-old daughter, but for the younger make-up artists working at Clinique as well.
I sit near a large tray of eye shadows. Cathy looks at me steadily and selects two of them, in shades of violet, and an eyeliner called “slate.” I ask her how she knows which colors to pick.
“Oh, I don’t know. I just know. I’ve been doing this forever,” Cathy tells me. Her badge says “Employee of Marshall Fields since 1976.” Matching make-up colors has become second nature to her. She is soft-spoken, with a mild Midwestern drawl. She draws out her vowels slowly, particularly “o,” as she explains that eye make-up should contrast with eye color. “You’re going to want to stay away from brown eyeliner,” she admonishes me.
Cathy tells me to close my eyes and begins dabbing on a skin-colored eye shadow base. The pressure she applies to my closed eyelid is light and even; I don’t even twitch when she touches me. Next she applies pale violet shadow from my lash line to my brow bone. One of the other make-up artists approaches us. I have a moment to open both eyes and look at her before Cathy tells me to close them again. Bridget is tall, thin and young, with lips like Angelina Jolie. She has monochrome marigold hair and wears thick black eyeliner.
“She’s still not letting me go out,” she complains to Cathy in a low, throaty voice. “I’ve had plans. Like this was a planned thing. My friends and I were going out tonight. It’s not like my mom died! What’s the point of me sitting home staring at a wall all night long?” Cathy draws a smooth line across the top and around half the bottom of each eye with the slate pencil and informs me that Bridget’s aunt died that morning.
“Well, I don’t know. I think I’d let Leslie go,” Cathy says, tentatively siding with Bridget, “If it was someone she was closer to, Leslie wouldn’t want to go out. So I’m not sure I agree with your mom.” Bridget huffs off with a look of self-satisfaction on her face, and Cathy begins to talk about her daughter, Leslie. As she leans toward me with a mascara wand she explains that Leslie is nineteen and studying early child development at Concordia University. She is clearly proud that her daughter is parlaying her love of little kids and her talent for babysitting into a teaching career. Then she asks where I’m from. I tell her Portland, Oregon.
“Portland is hilly, right?” she asks, “I was there once.” Cathy was in sixth grade when her father got a job with a railroad company. Her parents took her out of school for six weeks to tour the western United States with them by train. Cathy’s eyes mist over as she reminisces about seeing the Grand Canyon. Portland and Seattle were near the end of the trip. “Where is…oh, what is that?” she looks at the ceiling, trying to remember. “It’s a needle?” she asks.
“The Space Needle?” I guess. “That’s in Seattle.”
“That’s right. We went up in that, and could see the whole city,” she exclaims. Cathy is from the Chicago area and stayed to raise her own family. Her daughter goes to school close enough to visit frequently. The train trip Cathy took with her parents is the most she’s traveled outside of the Midwest. Cathy composes herself and hands me a mirror. “There you are! You’re all done,” she says, smiling. “What do you think?” I tell her it looks great, thank her, and ask to purchase the eyeliner. She gives me a free sample of lip gloss and tells me to come back sometime. I promise I will.