Why it is best not to put make-up on old men (a true story)

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When I was four years old, you could find me over at my neighbor’s house a lot.  She was about six years older than me.  She played with me all the time.  I remember that we used to go into her closet and use the back of her closet door as a chalk board.  Pretty sure I let that girl make me the student, which I would never allow as time wore on.  (I was the older sister, which meant my younger sister was always the student and had to do the worksheets I made up for her. She never did.) Anyway, another memory I have of my neighbor was of her trying out for the flag corp or team or whatever it is called and twirling a broom all around her front yard to practice while I sat in awe of her.  “She can really whip that broom around” was probably my exact thought.  “She is the master of all things broom.” 

But, what I remember most?

Putting make-up on her dad.

Lipstick, blush, eyeshadow…the whole works.

This kind below, though.  (RuPaul was not my neighbor and I don’t care if RuPaul is two words or one.)



I mean, it’s still odd, but…it wasn’t like I stole my mom’s Merle Norman stuff and brought it over to slather on *Herbert or something.  Isn’t it better that I wasn’t putting REAL lipstick on him?  Isn’t it more admirable that Herbert was only allowing me to pretend to coat a rosy hue with my fake blush all over his cheeks?  This is weird, right?  Where were my parents, right?

Anyway, that decision to grace his eyelids with a fake silvery blue eyeshadow was a bad, bad mistake.  Why?  That ONE decision I made to bust out the make-up set on my elderly male neighbor would result in me having to tell people for the rest of my life that I didn’t tweeze my right eyebrow while riding on the back of a motorcycle over a really bumpy, bumpy road in the middle of a windstorm.  Or something like that.

This is why…

Yeah, when Herbert turned in his chair (probably in an attempt to escape from me and my persistence in getting his eyeshadow balanced on both sides), I fell over, knocked my right eyebrow into the corner of a side table and the next thing?  BLOOD!  BLOOD, people!  BLOOD!!!!

The next thing I knew, I was in my mom’s arms being rushed to the emergency room where I received several stitches in my right eyebrow.  STITCHES THAT WOULD RUIN THE SHAPE OF MY EYEBROWS FOREVER!!!  Is there anything worse?  I mean, REALLY.  Is there anything worse than the ladies at the nail salon saying, “You pluck eyebrow too muh? Don’t pluck you eyebrow too muh.  Much bettah let it grow ou.”

Thanks, Lin.

Pretty sure that horrific experience of gashing my eyebrow on a sharp corner while innocently trying to lead my friend’s dad to his best look made me fearful of needles, stitches and attempting to put fake make-up on old men again, which, let’s get real, is tragic stuff.

*Herbert wasn’t his real name.  It was **Earl.

**His real name wasn’t Earl either.  It was ***Bill.

***Ha!  You thought it was Bill!  It’s not Bill!!  It’s ****PAT!!!  You thought it was Bill…

****Not Pat either.  Let’s just stop talking about this, okay?

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