I am having a bad morning after an even worse night.
My daughter is having a tantrum and screaming so loudly the neighbors can hear. Neighbors I never invite over, because I don't want them to see how empty my house is, how I can't afford to buy a steamer and paint to cover the ugly wallpaper my daughter compulsively rips off, how collection agents call me every few hours and leave angry messages on my machine. I am alone in this chaotic mess my life has become, because I am the single mom of a restless four-year-old, working overtime to keep us alive. I am ashamed. Of all these secrets. But let's put all that aside for a moment—because I am going to work.
When I drop off my daughter at daycare, I return to the car and drive 20 minutes back to my job at a local spa, where I work as a front desk receptionist. When I step out of the car, I am a different person. I have applied a coat of fairy dust to my ruffled feathers. I have put on my smile. I have perfectly tied my imaginary kimono and tucked my obi into place. I am ready to serve.
Everything is clean, pristine here. The lighting is perfect. I am suddenly someone else. Someone who is happy all the time, who is gracious and fluid, who creates beauty. When I answer the phone, I say, "How may I serve you?" When asked how my day is going, I smile and say "Excellent, and yours?" When a plumpish 60-year-old guest comes out of her facial appointment, I look at her as if she were the only person alive on earth—as if she is my best friend. "Wow," I tell her. "You're glowing!" And she is.
The skincare therapist is busy cleaning her station, so I offer to do the guest's makeup—that's part of my job. Slightly nervous, as I'm still new at this, I assess her face and pray to God, Krishna, the Virgin Mary, all the Muses and Kevin Aucoin: please let me show her she's beautiful. And she is.
She is a talker, so it's a little tricky to work on her. Her fine lines (which I will never in a million years refer to) pose a challenge as well: makeup tends to collect in them if not applied carefully. I explain to her what the primer does and how it is enriched with seaweed extract that will hydrate her skin, create a base for the orchid-extract-fortified foundation to adhere to. I ask her what look she usually likes. Peachy, sun-kissed; shiny lip gloss, no foundation, bronzer. I can see that she's outgrown this look. I don't tell her this. I'm thinking she could do something a little more glam, more regal. I ask her if she's with me on that. And she is.
I am going to give her a new look today. Her face, only more stunning. I can see that her dark eyes have a wonderful Egyptian look. I explain to her after applying powder and concealer, that I'm going to use this gold eyeshadow with a little olive green in the corners, to make her eyes stand out and look glamorous. I use lash-lengthening mascara, smoky umber smudge pencil along her lids, and a very subtle cream blush in a bronze hue. I finish that up with a subtle look on the lips: I want her eyes to do all the talking. Just a little lip gloss in a sheer rusty hue is all she needs. The shimmery colors help add a glow that smooths fine lines, but the colors are stately and do not pretend to be young and foolish. She is curious about every step as we go—what is this for? Can you write it down for me? She tells me about her granddaughter's soccer tournament, her renovations on her deck, and I listen and comment approvingly. It is easy to win people over when you listen and care. It helps make sales as well, but it's not about selling to me anymore. Sure, I need to make more than the pathetic $8 an hour I'm making here. Sure, I need your commissions. But I am not fishing. I am acting. I am forgetting my pain by creating joy in others. And I am believing. When I show the woman the mirror, I ask if she is happy. And she is.
I know I will go home tonight to an empty house, an empty refrigerator, a crying child who is ready to finally unleash her pent-up aggression on me and only me. I will hear the phone ring and know it's about a bill. I won't answer it. I will drive to Taco Bell and sit in front of the cold blue flourescent light of the drive-thru, and order some .89 cent bean burritos fresco-style, because I'm worried we're not getting enough vegetables anymore. I will sit in front of my computer because I'm too tired to clean the mess in front of me, and dream. Converse. Plead. Write poetry. Try to remember what it is like to have real flesh-and-blood friends around me, to be held, to be talked to with a live human voice. To live in a house where I feel myself spread out like butter, that I am proud to inhabit and maintain. To live in beauty, feeling my power and my tribe of friends encircle me snugly like a hug. To give gifts freely in abundance, and feel that the ground under my feet is my own.
But until then, I struggle. I know I will get to this place of peace—one scraped handful of bricks at a time. Until then, I have this practice of graciousness to help me imagine. For the space of today's work, I am creating beauty. And as easy as it is to put aside my problems in the morning, it seems to get harder and harder to put away that grace at the end of the day. Sometimes I find my kimono is still tied, my obi still fastened, my hair still lacquered into place as I set down my daughter's homely Taco Bell burrito on a plate, discussing the nutritional benefits of beans and tomato salsa.
And I wonder if this practice can become a calling. If somehow, this mood of service is sinking into my bones. If I am learning that through pleasing others, through transforming them and helping them see their own inner beauty through new eyes, I am doing the same somehow to myself.
And I am.
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