I just did a very daring thing for these Covid times: I ordered a new lipstick.
Of course, the only people who are going to see me wearing it will be seeing it through the filter of a Zoom screen. I don’t really want to start figuring out the best way to remove lipstick stains from masks.
But that’s ok. I see it as another nod to optimism, the most recent being my application and acceptance to an MFA graduate program in writing. If I can’t put on real clothes and walk the streets and ride the subway and eat alone in restaurants, searching for dialogue and copy and inspiration, at least I can wear a bright red lipstick on my next Zoom call.
I only really discovered lipstick a few years ago. As my face started to age, looking a little more wan with the wear and tear of a quarter century of child rearing, working full-time, caring for a sick and dying spouse, and the rapid declension of the world around us, I realized that I could brighten it up with a little color. Not the bright blue creme eyeshadow of my Teen Magazine junior high youth, but a subtle, warm, brownish red to make my lips pop and my green eyes blaze. I may not be a Loreal cover girl, but it definitely perked things up.
And then, Covid struck. First, no going out anywhere where anyone could see you, so we began a rapid descent into yoga pants and t shirts all day, every day. Then masks became de rigueur, at least in my blue bubble part of the world, so makeup was no longer viable. At this point in the pandemic, I’m lucky if I don a pair of closed-toes shoes. My heels must think I’ve died.
But this morning, reading the Sunday New York Times on the porch in the blessedly cooled-down morning air, I glanced at a listicle column about Suzanne Vega, heartache diva of the 90s. She’s about to release a recording from her gig in the Before Times at the renowned Café Carlyle, which, as the description notes, retains its reputation as a stronghold of old New York City grandeur. In her list of 10 inspirations, number eight popped out at me: Revlon's “Cherries In the Snow.” It’s her go-to lipstick, and she wears it for Zoom meetings and galas alike.
My glamorous, mysterious Aunt Pat wore Cherries in the Snow. Every day, no matter what. Along with her silk bandanas wrapped around her thinning hair and her giant gold hoop earrings, Pat had the reddest lips. She had been a dancer, and everything about her was sparkly and exotic to my young eyes. I would have sleepovers at her pre-war apartment in the East 90s with the sunken living room and the black and white photos hanging over the bar, and Pat would take me to the Woolworth’s up the block where the automaton fortune teller with the tarot cards would cackle and tell me my future for a nickel in the slot. The faux seer looked a lot like Pat, with the same bandana, hoop earrings and red lips. She terrified me, because her ceramic face was cracked, but also because fearful prognostication about the world was already burying itself into my Cold War baby’s soul.
Back in my mundane home life, when it came to lipstick, my mother was more attached to Persian Melon. An orangey pink, which was supposed to look high mod in a Barnaby Street sort of way, instead made her sallow, olive skin glow positively green. Along with my fondness for boho chic, it made me shy away from the whole lipstick enterprise for decades.
When I read about Suzanne Vega’s attachment to Cherries in the Snow, a whole slew of memories tumbled out. Along with the sensation of saudade … for my lost life, my lost wardrobe, a melancholia and sadness about our isolation, and most especially for my New York City, which I wasn’t jonesing for pre-Covid, but today I want to return to more than anything. I want to stride the streets, peer longingly into each and every window display, sneak a drink in at a modern-day speakeasy while my love nuzzles my neck, bourbon in hand, and head to the Carlyle for some jazz and motion. I want the energy, the pace, the grime and the opportunity. I want to go home.
So I ordered a tube of Cherries in the Snow. And when it arrives, I want to wear it for everything. Zoom calls. Galas. When I sit on the porch with my dog, reading a book. I want to make my green eyes pop again. And I want to have it at the ready for when I someday return to my city, with it sparkling lights and memories of an aunt who took my hand and tried to showed me the future.
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