Well, today was D-Day, not a repeat of Operation Neptune, but it might as well have been since it was to lead to my liberation. I had to take pictures. I do not like posing for a camera and taking photos. I am that person who, when I absolutely have to take official photos, would plant my barely 5 feet tall self behind everyone else, hoping that the tall ones all around me would cast long enough shadows that allow me to get lost in the frame.
I had asked a friend of mine to take some snaps of me for the back cover of my soon-to-be-released book. The error-free version of my manuscript was back from my copy editor and so I was one step closer to realizing a dream I didn’t even know I had until last year.
. . .
After putting him off twice, citing this and that, really not wanting the camera to capture the physical flaws that I was still uncomfortable baring to all and sundry, I could not pussyfoot anymore. The D in D- Day was to be Done-Day…..or Doomsday if the camera lens failed to capture what was behind my self-conscious mask.
. . .
I woke early that morning, deciding to do my own makeup and hair for the shoot.
The garden was to be the murder scene — after all, I had spent so much time there writing, dreaming, and haplessly believing that the location felt most fitting.
. . .
As I gazed at my newly washed face in the mirror, I declared to my guides ( they are always with me) “Someone is going to have to help me with this make-up thing.” I heard their laughter. I did not get the joke.
I started on my brows — getting lefty to look like righty is my greatest challenge and so as I took my pencil in my hand and began to outline a fuller brow, I heard, “here, here, let me help you with that.” I paused mid-stroke, not recognizing the voice. It was coarse and gravelly as if the owner had spent many years as a heavy smoker. I felt a presence and saw her in my mind’s eye. She was a well-made up, beautifully wrinkled old woman. A cigarette was dangling from her fingers. She was smiling through teeth that were well-stained with nicotine.
“Hi, are you here to help me? What is your name?”
“Call me Gretta,” she responded, “let’s get this make-up thing going.”
What happened next was indescribable! As if by magic the pencils and the brushes moved across my face. My fingers never felt so deft. She advised me to use a dark blush — a colour I had never thought of using before which made me nervous but I had learned over time to trust my guides and in less than fifteen minutes, Gretta was done with me and as I stared at the final product my eyes grew misty — I looked beautiful.
. . .
A few hours later I sat reviewing the images submitted by the photographer, looking for one that would be most fitting for my book cover. I felt the presence of my spirit guides and smelt the smoke from Gretta’s cigarette. Everyone was in a happy mood as if we had accomplished a life-defying mission to Mars. The agreement was unanimous. We selected one that was the most captivating, chosen because the sun was shining on my face.
. . .
I share a message to persons like me who do not meet the standard of Hollywood beauty: too short, too fat, too brown, too nappy-headed.
You are beautiful.
Raise your head, square your shoulders, stand tall and proud.
Let the sun shine on your face.
. . .