In the days when hair was big she would stand before the oval mirror to backcomb, and, spray in my rosy eyes, I sat behind admiring lipstick as an art form, built and blotted.
I knew she powdered on professionalism, glossing over foibles, preparing for the day.
There were layers, lines drawn, new brows to arch above and accentuate truly beautiful eyes. Properly late, anxiety etched there too, and I sensed her tension where I watched and learned, transfixed.