Dorrie would not let herself look away. The woman staring back at her in the mirror was not a pretty face. Not an aged-nicely face, nor a handsome face, not cute and not comely. With her hair pulled back it was nearly a masculine face: square and too many lines to hide with make-up. So what are you going to do, Old Girl, she asked her reflection. The truth could not be ignored and she may have to just live with it. She turned her head from side to side and appraised what she saw. Then she picked up a hand mirror and studied her profile. A loud guffaw escaped her mouth as she remembered that in junior high school she was in the yearbook as having the prettiest profile! How many decades ago was that? she asked the mirror.
Okay, Dorrie, she addressed her reflection, what can we do to fix this old gal up a bit and make her presentable? No amount of skin creams, from Ponds to Lancombe had eased the distinct lines around her mouth and above her top lip. She drank enough water in a day’s time to fill a bathtub, still to no avail. My dad’s face was deeply lined, she thought, even when he was rather young. So I guess I’m trying to fix something where genes have the trump card? she asked the woman in the mirror.
A big sigh as she released the towel holding back her hair. That sure sounded like my mother, she thought. Hmm. Actually the hair with all its soft curls helped some of the severity, she mused. I know, I know, she continued to talk to herself, more is less when it comes to eye shadow and mascara. Thankfully, her daughter had steered her away from the blue lids and eye liner she wore in much younger days. Okay, that’s good. No clumps on the lashes and no drama above the eyes. Oh! she said as she realized she was supposed to put on real foundation tonight, sheer, but enough to cover some of the sun splotches (do not call them liver spots!) on her face and even out the tone. And use a sponge, Mom, not your fingers to blend it in. Dorrie looked at the improved image in the mirror and asked, Is this what Angelina goes through? Blush was tricky; what was the rule? Start in the middle of your cheekbone and sweep up. Don’t create a clown face with rounds of red on your cheeks. I hear what you’re saying, Liz! she called up to the ceiling as she imagined that Liz Taylor was her make-up goddess angel.
Dorrie’s hair was full when she took the towel off, but now it was limp and she never did look good with it around her face. She pulled it up. She pulled it back. She ratted it with her comb, and then smoothed it over. Noooooooo! she threw the comb across the bathroom. I am just not a person who has every hair in place! Man, I would like to be, but I am just the mussed up hair lady. That’s who I am. Dorrie ran her fingers through it, and then lightly brought it up to a cascading bundle of curls in the back. She fished for little tendrils at her temples and mussed her bangs. Better, she thought. Just as she was applying a delicate peach-colored lipstick, her doorbell rang. She panicked! My date is here! she yelled at the resulting image in the mirror. Why am I going on a blind date at 70? she chastised herself. She blew her breath into her hand to check for offensiveness, but she passed that test. Dorrie walked to the door and cautiously opened it; her heart was up in her throat.A pleasant man, obviously someone around her own age was standing in the doorway. His eyes twinkled and his voice was something like Grandpa Walton. “Well,” he said, “I have a date with Dorrie Underwood. You must be her daughter.” Dorrie heard herself laughing and it sounded like a school girl.