BEAUTY SECRETS FROM THE FRONT LINES
Laura Lea Schneider

My mother’s preoccupation with her physical appearance was unfaltering.

“Come here, dear,” she’d say. “Let me show you how to be beautiful for the rest of your life. Now, you must learn to smile with your eyes, not with your mouth. That way you won’t get any wrinkles. You know, like Sofia Loren.” And then she would demonstrate.

“Watch, I’ll show you,” she’d say in a serious tone. “You use the energy it takes to make a smile and project it through your eyes. Like this.” To demonstrate she would point toward her mouth and then motion at her eyes. Then she would turn her head to show another angle. She’d complete the performance with a Vanna-style finish and I have to admit, she lit up the room like Christmas.

She was striking from any distance. Her long blond hair tossed up into half-a-bun, loose tendrils framing her face. You didn’t just look at her, you remembered her. I would confidently proclaim that I had the prettiest mom of all.

Always busy around our house, she made us look privileged, though we had little money for extras. She would tell me: “You can wear a potato sack, no matter, so long as you have fashionable accessories and shoes.” I took her advice to heart and my favorite activity became dressing up. Much to her dismay, I would change my clothes as many as six times a day.

It mustn’t have been easy for her, a beautiful young mother of two with dreams of success and acclaim. Her voice was lovely and she would sing loudly throughout the house. “It keeps you young,” she’d say. “You know, you can sing as loud as you can scream.” And she’d belt it out with a six octave vocal range. “The hills are alive with the sound of music…” People who came over to visit often thought a record was playing.

I remember one year she left us to become the regular singing act at two downtown nightclubs called The Cave Supper Night Club and Doric Howe Hotel and Restaurant. I don’t think I understood that she was gone, just “away.” Once in a while, my dad would take us to visit her at work. It was a theme restaurant that was really fun for kids. My mother was dressed like an Indian, complete with feathers and painted cheeks. She seemed surreal, not like Mom at all. Her life looked exciting, despite the sadness in her eyes. Her waitress friends would croon over us, and tell us how beautiful we were. It must have made an impression because that year I went out as an Indian on Halloween.

When she came back home, it was like she’d never left. I suppose I wasn’t old enough to be angry at her.

“Ok, another tip,” she’d say. “You need to keep your neck muscles tight because they’re the first thing to that will show your age.” Her neck and chest would tauten, and stretch out in a hideous display. “Push your bottom teeth forward and pull down at the muscles in your neck.” she’d tell me with enthusiasm. “That’s how singers do it. You try.” I’d make an attempt, but it always seemed silly, and I’d laugh.

It’s funny, but every once in a while I do remember to stretch my neck and smile with my eyes, but it seems like more work than it’s worth. I’m older now than she was then, and I sometimes peer into the mirror and inspect my wrinkles and skin. “I look pretty good,” I say to myself and I thank her for sharing with me the secrets that had come to shape my life.