Wakeup with makeup

Like Rebecca, the exotic heroine of Daphne Du Murier’s story, “last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again”, I must confess that I have never seen this rambling estate with the palatial villa called Manderley that was brilliantly brought alive in fiction. But I did visit a monument in Cyprus where the author stayed for ten months while writing her novel. 

Of all the things from the bygone era, what I miss most is the fuss that ladies made with their elaborate dressing-up ritual. Men dressed up formally too for dinner parties, extravagant weddings and also while travelling. See any black and white pictures of people emerging from an airplane and notice how immaculately dressed they all were about forty years back. A far cry from the tracksuit and faded jeans-clothed untidy passengers of today.

Going overseas on a steamer-ship or by air, was dignified business and travellers took the trouble of turning out in their best clothes for the occasion. Women wore smartly tailored dresses accessorised with elegant jewels. Men, almost all of them, wore dark suits and polished shoes. Decorum was maintained with no pushing or shoving between the queues and people, arriving after several days of travel, looked perfectly spruced up and fresh as daisies. 

When I was little I loved seeing my mother and other women dress up. I would watch in fascination as they expertly applied their make-up, which subtly transformed them into ultra glamorous divas. Each of them had a dressing table with a huge mirror, in front of which they used to sit on a cushioned chair. My favourite aunt used to notice me standing by her side and would flick a perfumed feather like powder-puff on my cheeks. A thin coat of the glittering dust would sprinkle on my face and I would refuse to wash it off for the rest of the evening. 

Without blinking, I would observe the trickiest method of how they went about applying a dark shade of lipstick. One coat would be smeared generously with the mouth puckered to a soundless “O”. Smudging it a bit by pressing a tissue paper to the mouth would follow this. An imprint of the painted lips would come off on the napkin but this was better than having the lipstick smear a teacup or a wine glass. That was considered sacrilege for a lady. Another coat of the crimson colour would be daubed, with extra attention paid to the cupid bow shape of the upper-lip. Lipstick bleeding into the corners of the mouth was checked instantly with some more dabbing of the tissue and the last step was the examination of the front teeth to banish any stains that could have appeared there. 

If she got ready before time, my mum would apply some lipstick on my childish mouth also. The family joke was that it was the best way to make me shut up because I would refuse to talk with the colour on my lips and would only reply in monosyllables. 

Last week I was babysitting my boisterous four-year-old niece. When all efforts to make her go to bed failed, I approached her with a tube of red lipstick. 

“Why are you doing?” she asked.

“Say ‘O’,” I instructed.

“My mummy says children cannot wear lipstick,” she announced

“They can wake up with make-up,” I said circling her mouth in crimson. 

“Goose nice,” she lisped giggling.

“Goose nice,” I giggled back