“Mom, we are going to give you a makeover,” my daughters giggle. 

The prospect of getting another makeover from my daughters is scary.  The last one left me looking like a professional boxer who had been knocked out.  Gobs of purple eye shadow above my right eye created a near perfect fake bruise that could have come from a devastating left hook. But, they’re my girls and I’m a good sport, so I go along.   Besides, it’s not like we’re out in the front yard as performance art for our neighbors, nor can they do anything that a quick shower won’t take care of.

My daughters, one on each arm, escort me to the porch, and then direct me to where I am to sit for my makeover.  Lani, my five-year-old daughter, starts off by brushing my hair in a gentle way.  She is cautious of finding a tangle, something I know she dislikes, and wants to avoid hurting me.  My seven-year-old daughter, Kiele, pulls my hair back into a ponytail, and flips it into a bun.  They act like professional make-up artists by clearing unwanted flyaway hair from their canvas.  I’m impressed and warm up to their newfound professionalism.   

My mom, who is assisting my daughters in the makeover, gives me a quick smile as she strides through the open sliding glass door out on the deck.  She drops a plastic bin packed with lotions, brushes and makeup containers onto the table in front of my daughters.  Their eyes perk up and big grins quickly spread across their faces as if their grandmother was giving them a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies instead of makeup.

Under the direction of their grandmother, the three of them begin rubbing moisturizer into my skin.  Six hands going to work on my face encroaches just a bit on my personal space, causing me to scoot back into my chair.  Their collective thirty fingers feel like a wildly curious octopus exploring my face with all of its tentacles. I’ve had facials before, but this is by far the most rigorous.   I grin and bear it, as I sense my daughters want to please me.

My mom arranges the various makeup containers into a line in the correct order of application. She instructs my daughters to take turns applying them, using a little at a time.  Their systematic approach gives me a good chance for a pleasing outcome and avoiding the “knock out” look from their first effort.  

Up first, Kiele works a sponge coated with silky foundation onto my facial contours.  Her attentiveness and care is evident in her long blending strokes.  Not wanting to break her concentration, I close my eyes.  Her gentle attention is relaxing and comforting.

Lani grabs a powder brush like she is going to punch with it.  Her grandmother quickly instructs her to hold it like a pencil.  She listens and changes her hold on it.   Lani begins brushing frantically all over my entire face.  There is so much powder flying in the air, I sneeze.  Lani is unaware her heavy application of powder is the cause of my sneeze.  She finishes her turn, kisses me on the cheek and walks away.

Their pace speeds up as they begin to make a game out of applying their designated product.  The serious tone of their work fades as they find themselves more concerned with having fun than making me look good.  Is this where it goes downhill?  I remind myself that I am but a few steps away from a bathroom sink.     

Lani applies the final layer, lip gloss.  She announces, “We’re done.”

“How do I look?” I ask.

Kiele shrugs her shoulders.  Lani beams, “Good,” as they walk back inside.

“Kiele wanted you to have a bigger change. Like using hot red lipstick,” my mom comments as she hands me a mirror for the big reveal.  She gathers the makeup and heads back inside, leaving me on the porch all alone. I look at my reflection.  It’s an all-natural look, which I wanted.  I neither look like a clown nor did I end up with a black eye.  No race to the shower this time, this will be my make-up for the day.

My daughters take care of me for a change, pampering me like pros.  I sit back to hold onto this moment.  My relaxed state of mind will be broken before I would like.  I know one of my daughters will be needing me for something.