Luscious Lips. by Patresa Hartman

My lips were vigorously exfoliated by a woman named Sue at the mall. I went to the Clinique counter for moisturizer and eye cream; but then I remembered how wrinkly and peely my lips have been. So I asked Sue, "Sue? Is there something I can do about my wrinkly, peely lips?"

She said yes, and sat me down in a tall chair.

In the middle of steady foot traffic, Sue squirted exfoliating cream onto a wet paper towel, told me to pucker, and then scrubbed the crap out of my lips while holding my head in place. An older man walked by and peered over his half-moon glasses.

"Sue?" I said.

"Uh huh?" she responded.

"This is a little weird."

She agreed and we had a good chuckle. Sue told me she had just scrubbed countless lips the night before during their big "lip event," and she'd grown sort of immune to the weirdness of it.

After my lips had been publically scrubbed, Sue smeared cream over them and then bright, shiny apricot gloss. My lips looked and felt spectacular. I wanted to lick them and kiss strangers.

I never feel completely comfortable or attractive in the vicinity of a make up counter. But at the same time, I like them. The ladies behind them have always been very kind to me, and I think it must be the result of spending your day trying to help people feel beautiful. I imagine they must see me as a meaty project.

But more than that, I admire how comfortable these women are with their femininity. Until recently, I have been somewhat embarrassed by my own femininity, preferring to accentuate the parts of myself I perceived as masculine and therefore: strong, smart, and courageous. I don't know where it comes from, this idea that feminine is weak, stupid, and helpless. But I think it's dumb.

I am no less intelligent, no more helpless, no more daring when I am wearing lip gloss. In fact, I think I am likely a better version of myself when I am balancing pride in my presentation with good sensibility. This is a fine lesson from Sue and her intimate knowledge of skin care.

Thank you, Sue. And thank you for my soft, luscious lips.

My Very Accurate Mirrors by Nannette Croce

Remember that Seinfeld episode where Elaine complains about “thin mirrors” in fitting rooms? It makes me appreciate the very dependable full-length mirror in my bedroom. It always shows the true me. It’s one of those antique reproductions that tilts on a stand. Sometimes from cleaning or bumping it tilts the wrong way, making me appear uncharacteristically short and dumpy, but with a slight adjustment I'm back to the tall, slim gal I am in reality.

Lucky I have that mirror, because it’s the only accurate one in the house. The others are so distorted they belong in a fun house. It's like I gain five pounds just by changing rooms.

Now my bedroom mirror isn’t perfect mind you. While great for checking out an outfit, it’s lousy for makeup. I suppose it’s the light or something about the tilt distorting close-ups because it shows lines and wrinkles I don’t have.

My perfect makeup mirror hangs above my dresser. That’s a true antique I inherited from my grandmother, so old in fact, that the surface looks a little grainy, but amazingly I see my face quite clearly with none of the lines my other mirror shows, though they can’t be more than a few feet apart.

I feel sorry for all those poor women stuck with bad mirrors, and I am so grateful for my two very accurate ones.