By Rex Catubig

 

YOU could never catch my mother without makeup. Or at least without a penciled eyebrow and red lipstick.

It’s a vanity routine she had to do that made her day complete.

But it was something that for a young boy was both penance and punishment.

It made for an agonizing wait every Sunday when we had to go to the población parish to hear mass.

It actually doubled the agony of having to listen to the soporific priest’s sermon that I hardly understood.

But makeup was life for her. She could do without her ruby or pearl earrings, but she could never part with her Max Factor.

Looking well made her feel good and she carried this on over the years, even when her eyesight began to fail her and old age started to creep in.

During my yearly holiday vacation, she would always be there at the door to welcome me home–fully made up no matter the time of day.

One time, I arrived in Dagupan in the wee hours, it must have been three in the morning.

At the sound of the door buzzer, I imagined she was jolted out of her sleep, jumped out of bed, and excitedly came out of her room, her maid in tow, to open and meet me at the door.

As I entered, I took her hand to my forehead, but when I looked up and saw her up close, a mixed emotion ran through me.

Her eyebrows looked as if doodled by a child playing with colored chalk. They were crooked and not the perfect crescent I was used to seeing. It was funny to behold and I had to hold back a chuckle. Yet, a tinge of sadness overcame me, to see her in what I recognized as a slow but sure descent to old age and infirmity.

I remarked that she should have turned on the light when she awoke. You should have slept with your makeup on, I jokingly chided her. “Ay agi, agko la naimano ed pangaganat ko”, she excused the morning mishap. (“I didn’t take a look at my face in my haste”).

Posthaste, I asked the maid to redo her brows and powder her face.

She always wanted to look her best. And she put on a herculean effort to do that so she could be beautiful, not just for herself, but in our sight. She wouldn’t have it otherwise.

She died quietly, one morning, as she sat up in bed, my brother whom she had earlier called to see her, sitting beside her. It was early morning, she was in dusters and she had not yet put her makeup on.

Calmly, she rested her head on my brother’s shoulder. And she was gone.

She had already been laid on her bed when I arrived—sans her nicely coiffed hair and her signature look.

Nonetheless, she remains beautiful in my heart, where she never ages, her brows thinly penciled in brown, her face meticulously wet sponged with her Max Factor cake compact–the shade of which was on the geisha end of the color scale. Yes, she loved being a mestiza despite her already fair complexion.

Nanay Ebay, your portrait as a beautiful woman and loving, caring mother is always up close in our minds and hearts. Whatever the season or the reason, you are always ready for your close up.

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