The Beautimous Chronicles #1 - "The Night of the Living Mask"

It all started with a call. “Are you coming over tonight?” Tonight, I thought? Not tonight! I didn’t actually say it, but my hesitation actually spoke volumes. “Tonight is Wednesday. I can’t possibly come over on a Wednesday.” He curiously asked, “why?” I did not have any excuses. It is not like I watch Lost or CSI NY, and America’s Next Top Model hadn’t started yet. Therefore, I was virtually stuck. After dating for a hot minute, he knew my television schedule like a hawk. He could see through my lies like a bad cellophane hair rinse. He also knew that I was a slave to TIVO and that I catch up my TV viewing over the weekend. I continued to put up the brave front of excuse making. I was stopped short of “I need to proof a friend’s as-yet-to-be-sent-and-yet-to-be-published greatest living novel.” “Okay, J, what is the real reason, you don’t want to come over?” How could I tell this man who works harder than I do, that Wednesday was “mask” night. Mask night does not have anything to do with (1) Mardi Gras, although I am from Louisiana, (2) Phantom of the Opera, or (3) Jim Carrey. Mask night is something far greater and beyond. It is my mid-week beauty routine of putting a mask on virtually every inch of my body. I literally mean from the last strand on my short ‘do to the bottom of my runner’s feet. I started mask night before turning 30. Why? Great question. I realized that I wanted to be beautimous well into my 40s and 50s. I have never aspired to be in any magazine or famous, but Essence Magazine’s Annual January issue. This issue contains fabulous women of color over 40. Of course, I have a few years to get there, but the process has to be started now. You cannot begin to use eye cream once wrinkles are established. I deeply understand the motto of “black don’t crack.” I have heard this my entire life, but there is no such thing as luck, just preparation. So I started mask nights, not to be confused with exfoliation nights, which take place on Sundays. Why is this a problem? Well the older I become, the more I realize that men and women DO NEED SEPARATE BATHROOMS. There are some things that men should never see. The way we become beautiful, glamorous, fabulous and drop dead sexy is one of them. Your man could be the best metrosexual male in the world, (BTW: I hate that term), but the mystery still needs to be contained. I did not believe this until recently, even though my friend Ro believed it since I met her. So here I am with a major dilemma. How do I maintain my beauty routine in the company of a man who at any given day or time could be gone for work at a moments notice The vitality of the relationship is paramount, but so are my beauty treatments. This is a part of the Southern Girl’s lifestyle. For women, beauty is a separate job from the one that pays the bills. I am sure by now, most people are going, “What is the problem, hasn’t a man ever seen you do this.” My response: NO, NEVER, NADA, NON. The only men to ever see me become beautiful were my father and brothers. Since I had to share a bedroom with one of my brothers, the need for privacy quickly became a non-issue. Anyway, I digress. Have the men I dated ever come close to the viewing process? NO. Somehow I have always been able to work around their visits. It is work. Thank goodness my Type A personality comes in handy and not just for work. This was different. I need an entire bathroom to spread eagle myself and stand for 30 minutes for maximum suppleness. What to do? I weighed the pros and cons. I finally conceded defeat and ask the question I knew the answer to. “Are you and your friends playing Madden football tonight on Playstation?” For all the ladies who are illiterate to the adult male world of video games, let me give you a quick run down. Video games to men are what lip gloss, stilettos, a great book and sample sales are to women. Nourishment. Life. If you put a man in front of a video game, you immediately see a three year-old watching repeats of that purple dinosaur. My answer came with a thunderous, “Yes.” He informed me of the previous games losses and he needed video game redemption. He was out to kick some butt. I calculated. This window of time gives me at least a full hour of beauty. There is a God. Did I mention that his bathroom is twice the size of mine. I was extremely excited. Anticipation filled the air. I packed my rather large overnight kit and placed all necessary masks inside. For hair: Ojon Restorative treatment. (If you don’t have this run out and get this now). Worth the money. Face: this one changes with my mood. I usually am faithful to Ahava, but I decided to use the Fango Active Mud for Face and Body by Borghese. Truly mud. Truly luxe. Truly beautimous. I double checked for all other accoutrements. Eye cream, neck cream, serum, night cream, Rosebud salve and L’Occitane travel hand cream. Yes, I know I use a lot of products, but in 10 years, it will be worth it. Of course, he already knows I go to bed looking like a wet seal. Trust me, beauty costs and being a beautimous lady takes work. I learned that from my glorious, smart, spiritual, well read, cultural and strongest woman to ever grace the plant. My grandmother and namesake, Julia Shade. So off to see the man. I arrived of course, as usual, to an unlocked door. Ladies, this happens during a timeout in the game. Yes, they have timeouts in video games too. I own a Play Station. Let’s not go there. Anyway, I walked upstairs to find him happy. Happy as a girl at Neiman Marcus’ last call sale. He was yelling into the telephone and making plays. I wave hello and ask for a quick second. You do not get minutes with men who play video games. I speak those magic words. “Baby, I need to borrow your bathroom for about 40 minutes. Can you use the one downstairs. I have girl stuff to take care of.” His reply, “do not worry about me, we are only in the 2nd quarter, so do what you will.” I tell you it was like manna from Heaven, or at least finding out that my favorite lip gloss is not going to be discontinued after I’ve just discover it. So, I strut my happy booty in the bathroom and proceed to start the process. First, you must have great music. It is a process and music sets the mood. I plug in the IPOD and put on my play list of music, Aya, Bebel Gilberto, Kelly Clarkson, Lenny Kravitz, and Mary J. Blige. Yes, I needed the variety. I placed a towel on the floor Next, gloves. Yes I needed latex gloves. I didn’t want to keep washing my hands or leave my perfectly manicured nails in disarray. My next manicure wasn’t until Saturday. I started with my face, applied de-puffing pads to my under eyes and followed with the mud. I moved on to my hair. Slowly and methodically combing the treatment in. I feel as though I am back on one of my favorite vacations, Bariloche, Argentina Then my entire body. I make a mental note to get my brows threaded next week. (Always be on top of your beauty game, girls). I started on my body and realized that I forgot my long-handled sponge for my back. Yes, I have one of those. How do you think you are going to get the mud back there? I make do. I am grateful now to vinyasa yoga DVDs. I finally finished and basked in my mother earth covered body. Still looking good kid, thanks to a combination of running, yoga and knowing how to control my portions. I take a sip of wine. Yes, wine is part of the pampering. It also helps to date someone who loves wine because he might be playing a game, but the glass has already been poured. I started the countdown, 20 more minutes. I am really feeling the music, as well as, the wine when my happiness was abruptly stopped. “What the hell?” You’ve heard those words countless times, but never from a man who is looking at you as though you are a five year-old, just jumped into a dirty creek and dancing to music. I WAS MORTIFIED. The questions began to come faster than I could think. “What are you doing? What is that on you? Why do you look a sea creature? Why are you spread eagled and naked on a towel?” “Why are you brown all over?,” which was my personal favorite. This one is particularly funny because I am a dark skinned African-American and brown everywhere. I couldn’t move, I was frozen. I politely yelled, “what are you doing in here? I asked you not to come in here.” Of course, most men are never truly listening when we talk, so our brief conversation went in one ear and immediately out the other. “Baby, I forgot. I came to check on you. And you did not answer my question, why are you brown?” I just tell him to hurry up and get out. He turns around and walks away. At that moment, I realized why he was laughing so hard. He had his cell phone headset in his ear the entire time. Whoever was on the other line heard the exchange. I was mortified. I here him laugh and say, “she’s butt naked and covered in mud.” I grabbed all the dignity I had left and headed for the shower. I tried to ignore him, but I was flustered. I focused on hurrying as fast as I could and making sure every last piece of mud was off. I stepped out of the shower and toweled off. I started applying moisturizer then I had the light bulb moment. The one that made the last five minutes so worthwhile. I forgot the incident. Why? Because baby, despite the interruption my skin was like butter and nothing else mattered. Julia