C.J. started dabbling in makeup like most of us started — with Lip Smackers and cheap, hand-me-down eyeshadow that was a free gift with purchase. A spritz of perfume here. A few coats of nail polish there.
Suddenly his makeup bag grew from a old small one I used to carry in my purse to a hard pink box the size of a briefcase with vanity lights inside.
He applied his makeup to himself. Then his Barbies. Then the mannequin head my mother-in-law bought him for Christmas. That head is, more often than not, eerily affixed to our kitchen island; staring at me as I watch TV long after C.J. has gone to bed and the night has grown dark. “You scared the shit out of me!” I say to it often while catching my breath.
Once C.J. started doing my makeup, he begged to do it every night. With little regard for my skin’s rebellion. My adult acne is due in large part to my son’s heavy application of makeup night after night.
When we were young, my brother and I did our mom’s makeup and always aimed for a natural look. You know, lipstick on the lips, eyeliner on the lids, mascara on the lashes. I quickly learned that C.J. doesn’t care for a natural look.
The first time C.J. did my makeup, he turned me into a zombie.
I’m not the only one in the family who gets their makeup done by C.J. Click here to read about him doing Matt’s makeup.