My mother never wore much makeup. She had some. I seem to remember a pearl-pink lipstick, a couple of eyeshadows (green and gold) and an eyebrow pencil. But she had really good skin, so didn’t really need any makeup – that’s just my opinion.
She said she didn’t much care for makeup because she didn’t want to hide her freckles.
She had about four.
Still, my Dad was strung together with freckles, which he collected in Egypt when he was eighteen, and mine come from him.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I think there was a physiotherapist who attended to my mother when I was little, and who told me that I should never be ashamed of my freckles because they were (and I quote) “angel kisses”.
I know. It’s kind of icky to read that, but, please remember, I was there. This is a memory from inside my head. And, as much as it was said with kindness by a woman who could never be accused of anything but, it was a little alarming because I’d never thought to feel any particular way about my freckles.
There was no need. They were just there. Like my feet. Or my eyebrows. Just – there. Not something to go wild about but equally, not something to really consider.
So, why do they get a place among 365 happy thoughts? Well, I’m so glad you asked.
Because they’re a damn good excuse not to bother with makeup.