Sometimes on a hot night, while the TV in my parents� room blared �Finder of Lost Loves� to cover their small noises, I would get out of bed. I would walk over to the big pine dresser that was as tall as me and open the second drawer from the top. Standing on tip-toes I would look into my nightgown drawer. Usually I was wearing a very plain oversized cotton T-shirt; most of the other items in my nightclothes drawer were similar, but I�d dig until, way in the back, I came upon my silk slips that were my best nightgowns. I would decide which one to wear, depending on my mood--the plain white, or the pale green--and take it out, smelling its fresh-clothes scent. I�d sneak downstairs and into the bathroom, carefully sliding the door shut behind me. Then, the alchemy began.
First I would put on the slip, admiring the way it shimmered over my body. In the old movies I loved, actresses were always lounging around in their slips. I imagined being Liz Taylor, sipping something from an icy cocktail glass.
Hair next. I invented elaborate styles, pulling my long, straight hair into sophisticated up-dos, then loosening a few tendrils around my face. It was, I thought, a romantic style. Other times I�d brush the sides out, feathering them slightly and trying to get the distinctive hairstyle of Murphy Brown (who I considered the epitome of female perfection).
Once my hair looked right it was time for make-up. This was more of a challenge; I owned none of my own and all of my mother�s foundation and powder matched her olive skin, not my pale complexion. Usually I would settle for a little eyeshadow--green was my favorite, to match the green in my eyes--and some lipstick. Mom had about fifteen teeny-tiny samples of lipstick that Avon or somebody gave away, and I could spend a half-hour blending Cinnamon Spice with Wild Berry, trying for that perfect shade. Mascara, applied to both upper and lower lashes, completed the look.
Now I needed an accessory. Usually I�d make a �flower� out of a cotton ball, pretending it was some exotic tropical bloom. I wore the flower behind one ear and looked at the finished effect in the mirror.
Rapture! Beauty! I was in a pageant, the mysterious last-minute contestant who stole the hearts of the audience and judges. Or I was the taciturn woman with a past, sitting in some seedy bar in North Africa while cannon fire echoed in the background. Or I was the fascinating, yet elusive, writer who appeared in town to change everybody�s life. I was every archetype of beauty I could think of, for those few minutes--all-desirable, all-acceptable, all-good. For those few minutes, while I could continue to imagine it�I was the most beautiful girl in the room.
