The Days of Purple and Blue Dresses

I stare at my mother who is standing at the sink with the harsh white light illuminating her black hair. I sit on the cold tiled floor with my back pressed up against the side of the bathtub in my too-hot flannel pajamas to watch her get ready for the big night ahead. She meticulously applies her eyeliner with a steady hand that I envy, as I never seem to be able to get mine right. I closely examine her as she puts on the foundation that may be a smidge too orange, the mascara with just a few clumps, and the blush applied from the remnants of a cracked palette. Everything is thrown just a little off-balance, but not enough to notice unless you are the girl watching her mother without ever blinking. As she puts on her too-red lipstick I ask her from my little spot on the floor if she would do my makeup as well. She brushes off my childish request with the excuse of being pressed for time but then proceeds to wipe off the near-perfect eyeliner and start again. I sigh and press my head against the chilled white tub while bringing my knees up to my chest.

She moves into the closet next. I follow. I watch as she tries on three different dresses, and each time she spends at least five minutes in front of the mirror. She pulls the edges and tugs on the straps desperately trying to fix whatever looks so wrong in her eyes. It is strange for me to see her stand sideways in the mirror and suck in her stomach; I always thought that this was a habit purely for people my age. Now I realize that my unconfident traits are not likely to merely disappear when I grow up. She asks for my opinion with each dress, and every time I tell her that it looks fine. After watching this cycle repeat again and again throughout the years, I know that whatever I say in response to her insecure question will never have any effect on her decision. She settles on the green dress that is so dark it almost looks black and frowns into the mirror. I jump up to grab the sparkly silver heels that catch the light in the most amazing way – almost like a disco ball. She laughs at my excitement and pats me on the head as she pulls out the same black flats that she has worn every night out for ten years.

As I watch her pick jewelry I wonder if she ever misses the excitement of the years prior where she would look forward to her nights out and prepare with happiness, not dread. I remember sitting in the same position at the over-zealous age of five while I watched my mother get ready to go out with her friends. She would play music in the bathroom and dance, making funny faces in the mirror to hear my joyous laughter. Her eyeliner would be imperfect with her shaky hand, but she would not care. Instead of using wrinkle cream she would add sparkles of highlighter to her face and apply her shiny pink lip gloss. I remember her letting me pick the dress, and I giggled as I made her try on dazzling purple and blue ones. She would turn her scarves into dresses for me and we would create our own fashion show, right there in the closet, not caring about anything except the shimmery pink eyeshadow smeared onto both of our faces.

I snap back from my cheerful memory with a nudge of warning on my shoulder – I was sitting in the way of the warm coats meant to protect her bare shoulders from San Francisco’s harsh winds. I stand up and lean on the doorway trying on her shoes to see if I finally fit into them. They fall off my heel, the extra space reminding me that I still have time for the shimmering purple and blue dresses, the pink eyeshadow, the fashion shows, and the sparkles smeared across my face.

I look up and my mother says to me, “Honey, you know that you don’t have to watch me get ready anymore, right?” Little does she know that this is just as much my ritual as it is hers.

Sarah Walcott ('22)

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