In the pursuit of beauty

On Friday evening I had a good yarn with my two big boys.  I was telling them about a plot of a short story I wanted to write, involving a sixteen year old boy. I wondered if they’d help me with the vernacular, the words sixteen year old boys use.  I explained the mother of this boy was high maintenance.

     ‘What’s that mean?’ asked Sutchy.

     ‘Well,’ I said, ‘a high-maintenance woman is one who say, gets her nails done, keeps her hair coloured and styled, she might wear make-up and she dresses well.  In other words, she spends a bit of money on looking good.’

     TK then told me about meeting a mother of a friend of his.  

     ‘Mum, she’s just like you, down to earth and that, but (I knew a ‘but’ was coming) she … um … she like does a bit more than you to … um …  look good.’

     ‘Oh, well,’ I said, not one to waste a moment in the pursuit of beauty, ‘good on her,’ and I continued with my riveting short story plot.

     The following morning, Pepper was honking at 5.30, as usual so I rose to let her out of her crate which houses her for the night on the veranda.  I had my sunrise cup of tea with her in the garden.  I put her in the pond for a paddle, but she hopped out immediately and went straight to the damper mixing bowl.  It’s a giant enamel thing with stencilled designs on the side, an essential in Islander households.  I’ve filled one with water and left it on the grass for her.  

     I sipped my tea and watched like a proud parent as she dipped her head over and over so the water flowed down her back.  After a few minutes she climbed out and stood on the grass preening herself, nipping her feathers, again and again, particularly her chest.  She used her bill to grab at the feathers on her breast as if coaxing them to standing position.  I thought of a woman teasing her hair to make it appear full and beautiful, as women have done for millennia in the aspiration towards beauty.

Pepper preening herself

     I recalled my conversation the night before with my boys and Pepper Zen’s wisdom hit me.  It’s okay for a woman to ‘preen’ herself and ‘do a bit more to look good.’  Beauty and hair product manufacturers make squillions of dollars out of women wanting to look younger, thinner, with smoother skin, thicker hair, bigger breasts, whatever.  That’s okay.  They are responding to demand, nothing more. Okay, maybe some of the multi-national cosmetic companies create the odd insecurity in older women who can’t achieve the flawed complexions of Andie McDowell, Linda Evangelista, Julia Roberts etc, some of whose photos were so heavily enhanced last year they had to be pulled.

     Anyway, what Pepper was telling me is that it’s okay for me to make an effort with my appearance.  I don’t have to go the whole hog with makeup and clothes that need ironing.  A little mascara and lipstick, even a hair cut and colour (that is, more often than once every 2.5 years which is my average in the past decade).  Hell, she was willing me to understand I could even try a necklace and earrings that aren’t sleepers.

     I came upstairs and related my newly discovered wisdom to TK and Sutchy who were playing cards, referring to our conversation the night before.  Sutchy the Laconic rolled his eyes.

     ‘Good, Mum,’ said TK. ‘You can start with shaving your underarms and legs.’

     Cool, I thought, though I don’t shave my legs.  I’m simply not ready to make that committment. I wish I could, but I can't.

     When I showered, I tended to my arm pits with the pink Lady Shaver my friend Pam left after her visit in April.  It was a good time to shave as our family and Nicola and Henry were heading out to a beach for a swim at lunch time after Tony had taken the boys fishing.  

     It did occur to me that having smooth underarms was an exercise in futility considering I always wear a long-sleeved rashie and fingerless- gloves and a face-covering printed with rainbow-coloured fish scales.  Oh, well, I reasoned as I slid the shaver over my skin, it’s what’s on the inside that counts.  That’s what Pepper was telling me.

     So, off we went in two boats and our first stop was the beach before Terry Beach, a deserted cove between a small headland and rocky outcrop protected by reef.  Nothing short of paradise in our oceanic back yard.

      Everyone was in the water before me.  I removed my shorts and was about to jump over the side of the boat.

     ‘Mum, what are you doing?’ said TK, shielding his eyes, as if I was stark naked or covered in tattoos.

     ‘Going for a swim.’ I wondered if his was a trick question.  I still don't understand teenage boys.

     ‘Bikini pants for bikini bodies only, Mum.  You need to fix up that shit downstairs.”

     Shit?  Downstairs?  I really needed help with the teenage vernacular. What on earth was he going on about?  I had stepped out of my shorts only.  Otherwise I looked like a technicolour guerrilla with my long shirt, gloves, sunnies and face-covering.

     Uh-oh.  I looked down.  I’d completely forgotten about my bikini-line.