Sipping teain front of Sephora,with my husband,the third one.
I watch the girls from the cosmetic counterhuddle together, dressed in black smocks,full painted lips, coal-colored hair,coiled chignons.
What are they thinking? I wonder.My husband looks at them,then at me. Why does it matter?It matters to me. I have questions.
I want to ask them how it feels to be beautiful.I don’t remember.I want to know if they know they are beautiful.I never knew.
Yesterday, between forkfuls of scrambled egg whitesI visit with Cheryl, once a great beauty,After 60, she says, you’re invisibleand I’m ok with that.
I am not ok with that.I am not ok with vanishing.I am not ok with fading away.
Later, alone by the fireI see my reflection as itdances along the flames.It twirls, bows, then stops.
Once I watched a woman disappear.Sequined and red-lipped she took a bow,then in the flick of a magician’s batonshe vanished; a magic trick.