A little southern belle learns what’s in store for her when she grows up to be a glamorous woman like her mama
Everybody always says that I am six going on sixteen years old, and they are ab-so-lute-ly core-rect. I live for the glam-our, dahhhling. I will grow up and be the most wonderful, amazing, beautiful movie star the world has ever seen.
Mama says I can’t wear all that makeup and high heels yet, but I am already practicing for my world debut.
I help her get ready every Saturday night before she goes out to the club with Daddy. I drape her perfect pearls around her neck and imagine how truly divine they will look on my neck, one day. I hold a mirror while she glosses on her red lipstick and I know just ex-actly how she does it. Mama wears champagne colored eyeshadow, but one day I will wear true gold, dahling.
She sprays her whole head with some spray that’ll keep her hair in place FOREVER, no matter if there’s an earthquake, or a tornado, or any kind of thing. This is one part of glamor I can wait for. The smell of that stuff is positively hateful.
She puts on her prettiest black dress and I zip up the back. I tell her that she looks “mag-ni-fique!” because that’s a French word for out-of-this world gorgeous and that is what my mother is. I spray her with Coco Mademoiselle Chanel, also French, and the most beautiful scent on god’s green earth! I give myself a little dab on my wrists too, because we should be allowed to smell wonderful at any old age, I say.
Then comes my real job, the most important part of the dress-up -process: I fetch mama’s shoes, her new gorgeous red pumps. These things put the WOW in WOWZA. Getting them on Mama’s feet is a two-woman job.
The heels stand three (magnificent) feet high, almost as tall as yours truly. I drag them across the carpet of Mama’s room while she climbs up the little ladder. She puts her hand on my shoulder while she works her right foot into heel number one.
She squeals a little and squirms and her dang toes just won’t get themselves in there. Not a problem. I get the duct tape and get to wrapping reeeal tight around her toes. When those suckers are real stuck together, so she can’t wiggle a single one, I tie off the tape.
Mama grips onto my shoulder and pushes that stubborn old foot right into those beautiful shoes until her toes get real jammed in. Her scream is only a little terrible, and I’m not mad at her for squeezing my shoulders ’til they’re abso-lutely sore.
I’m practicing to be brave in the face of glamor.
Mama says we should never be afraid to scream and cry for beauty because we’d be screaming and crying much harder if we weren’t beauties!
I wipe the blood that seeps over the side of those sweet shoes and say, “Hey Mama, at least they’re red! Your blood blends right in!”
She says her heels are slidin’ around in all that blood so I get the glue gun and we just hot glue her heel right in there, and I personally guarantee that it is not budgin’ till we get her feet under the heat lamp after the party tonight.
Straight away, when we’re finished, I get Mama her special pumps vodka cocktail and her three-little-blue and one-big-white pill. She swallows all three and the whole glass in one gulp and after just five minutes of wailin’ and cryin’ in pain, the cocktail is workin’ its magic and Mama is able to walk! Does she ever look mesmerizing and wonderful and like the most beautiful thing you ever saw in your whole entire life in those three-foot-high red heels.
Papa rolls the car right up to the front door because these are what Mama calls 10-step heels. She should really only take ten steps at a time or she risks losing a toe or two for keeps.
I patter to the window on my toes and watch them pull out of the driveway and I bet Mama will be the most dazzling woman in the world tonight. I can’t wait to wear my own red heels out on a night like this. Mine, of course, will be four foot high.