Unmasking a beautiful past

Who doesn’t like to be complimented? Young or old, we never really get tired of a word or two of appreciation and motivation. In fact, many of us hunger for affirmation and appreciation. I am no different. I wait for her, because every time she comes, a trail of memories comes alive and I feel emotionally whole again.

The lady, with her soft words of appreciation, shines a light on that side of me which I have forgotten. Her rose-tinted, harmless sweet little fibs are like a multivitamin-boost for my mind.

“Ma’am, if you don’t cut your hair, it will grow knee length soon. You have such soft and straight hair,” she coos while massaging my head. My mind rushes back to those vernal childhood days when my mother, while braiding my hair used to say, “I need extra hours and extra hands to braid your hair and send you to school on time.” The love and pride in her voice rings fresh in my ears, making me forget my greying and thinning crowing glory of today.

She goes on. “You have a natural glow to your skin, just a little more care and you may not need facials at all,” she says while scrubbing my face gently. My mind races back to those days of sibling-bonding, and rivalry, when my mother applied home-made face-packs of besan and turmeric on our faces. How comical, even scary, we looked with that pack on. I break into a smile and forget all about my dry, dull, aging skin of today.

“Ma’am, your feet are so beautiful with long toes and nice nails,” she says as she pampers me with a pedicure. My mother’s teasing words ring in my ears: “Your feet look exactly like your dad’s…not petite like mine.” And I forget my aching feet, hard heels and brittle toe nails of today.

This is the ultimate. “Ma’am, actually you don’t look like a mother of two grown-up sons.” And my mind flutters with excitement as I remember my friend’s words on the phone: “Hey, we saw you walking down Commercial Street yesterday with a handsome young man.” I feel proud as the mother of that handsome young man and a wee bit proud for myself that I don’t look old-enough to be his mother.

Her affectionate words never fail to cheer me up. And reminds me of Will Smith: “I am not what happened to me.” I too say, fat is what happened to me; age is what happened to me; grey in the hair is what happened to me; lack-lustre skin is what happened to me.

I can’t help thanking this loving, beautiful soul. She is my beautician whose beautiful ways refresh the joys of youth.