I have always been fond of the art of applying makeup. Contour and Angel Blush brushes captured my interest when I was just a young girl. Watching my mother paint shadows across her eyes and blush along her high cheekbones had been one of my favorite past times. Three doors down from our sizeable wooden staircase, in our red-brick New York home, is where the magic had began.
At eight a.m. sharp I hear the soothing tones of Beethoven swiftly enter my room, calmly awaking me. This familiar alarm only means one thing; my mother is awake, and she is getting ready for work. Excited to start the day I swing my legs unto the floor, and complete a full body stretch. The warmth from the sun enters my room from the blinds, and immediately wraps itself around me. Eager to see my mother, I promptly shower, put on clothes and decide to go to her bedroom.
As I exit my bedroom I become aware of the sweet smell of Chanel Number Five that has inserted itself into the narrow hallway. Oil paintings that tell stories of love and happiness decorate the walls, making it feel even more closed in. I can hear the wood underneath my feet creak as the anticipation builds and my steps become full body spins and dances. Beethoven’s Symphony Number Nine takes hold of me and we waltz into the entrance of my mother’s door way.
I can see her sitting at her spacious white amour staring into a make-up smeared mirror from where I stand. The gentle morning breeze tosses the floor length curtains in an upward position, almost as if they were directing me to enter and I oblige. Passing over the threshold, the change of the smooth texture of the wood to a plush white carpet underneath my feet makes me smile and I am reminded of why this is my favorite place. The light blue walls complimented with white boarders create a calm feeling that takes hold of me as I enter. I lift myself onto her bed, which is neatly made and her silk sheets crease because of the impact. Acknowledging my presents my mother pauses, blows me a kiss in the mirror, and continues to prepare to create a masterpiece.
Sitting on her bed I am pleased that I am just on time to see her begin with her morning ritual. Closing one eye I notice how she relaxes the muscles in her face as she applies a charcoal Sephora liquid eyeliner to her top eyelid followed by her lower lid. The stroke of the pencil is sharp to ensure a perfect outline. Next, she coats her eyelashes with sticky ultra-black mascara that instantly elongates her natural eyelashes. This is a simple routine to her but I sit on the bed in awe as I watch her transform right in front of me.
A crisp gust of wind enters the room and small rainbows dance across the back wall to the music of the swaying chandelier. This takes away my attention from my mother and I gaze around the room. The first thing I place my eyes upon was her amour. Smeared make up decorated this space with all different shades of reds and pinks, reminding me of rose petals scattered across a garden. Makeup brushes only fit for the finest artist stood tall in a container next to the many palettes that held colors that harmoniously complemented each other. The perfume bottles that softly kiss the air are all display by size and scent. The display ranges from classic, followed by sweet, and lastly seductive. Suddenly I feel a mist hit my upper body and my attention reverts back to my mother. Before I can say a word, I taste the sweet perfume that teases my lips and again I smile.
Her gaze in the mirror catches my eye and we share laughter as I wipe the remaining perfume from my lips. Our hands move in unison as she glides red lipstick across her lips and returns the smile. The deep red lipstick effortlessly outlines her mouth perfectly and it immediately stains. The classic touch of the lipstick compliments Beethoven’s most popular arrangement Fur Elise, which is now streaming from the radio.
The sunlight moves to the opposite side of our house and a glimpse of light crosses the room, highlighting a pearl necklace on the dresser. Catching both of our eyes, she quickly retrieves it and places the laced pearls around her neck. This is the finishing touches and we are ready to leave the house. Hand in hand we exit her room and enter the narrow hallway. We indulged in the smell of Chanel Number Five as we pass the oil paintings that tell stories of love and happiness. We disturb the wood causing the floor to creak as we waltz past the three doors down to the top of the staircase. Reaching the bottom, we finally we exit from our red-brick New York home, which is where the magic had all begun.