laugh with me, cry with me

I don't do makeup.

So you will appreciate the trepidation I felt, when my daughter who is studying makeup, asked me to be her model with 'mature' skin. Don't you hate that word. Mature. 

As in ... wine, cheese?  Both these things are only, in my opinion, better with age.

But skin. Come on.

So, graciously, and because I'm a good mom, I was the model with 'mature' skin.

And for a couple of hours I stepped out of my au natural world with my palette of stone, black and every shade of white, into a world of color, brushes, mirrors and hot lights. Her world. She let me in.

We're polar opposites, but she gets me. 

Subtly, she transformed me and skillfully hid the past months of sadness that I wear

everyday without noticing. Until now.

It's hard not too notice when confronting myself in the mirror with hot lights framing my grief.

Grief isn't just felt. It's worn.

Somewhere in the process I've detached.

I know this, observing myself as I ever so slowly, allow the reality

of life without my partner come a little closer every day.

Make me beautiful again. And she did.  Hide the pain. And she did. 

Vainly, (and bravely - I dont do photographs) I took photo's of myself. Of us.
I wanted her to see how happy I can be.

 Because she's happy.

David would have loved to see us together.  Like this.

Mother and daughter. Fixing each other. 

It had everything and nothing to do with makeup. Who knew. 

thank you Carly

love, mom