"It hurts to be beautiful."
She said her mother taught her that. Purposefully. As if it was important motherly advice. And also some kind of ominous warning about being a woman in general.
The message was not just that making oneself pretty was hard work, costly, a general waste of time, and another bothersome burden to a mother who had no time for such nonsense. The message was also that beauty is dangerous. It will get you into trouble; get a girl hurt. It was not taught to my brother. Or her brothers. Maybe it's because they didn't have long hair or fingernails that needed attention.
Grandma used to brush her hair and if she cried that is what she was told. She said the same to me while I cried as she brushed my hair. My grandma was not a kind and gentle woman. She was a farmer. Wife of an alcoholic who died young. Mother to three strapping boys and then a scrawny girl. We used to visit and I couldn't understand why mom always cried when we drove away from that farmhouse. It was clear to me she did not love her. One of them was always angry and the other always wrong. Both yelled a lot. She had lotion that smelled like roses, insisted on only wholesome foods except her instant coffee, and tended the animals with joy and adoration. There was not a kind word, a loving embrace, nor any kind of meaningful communication I understood during our short visits. But when we left there were tears.
Years after grandma died we moved back into that house. Just like every woman who says, "I will never be like my mother" she was. She loved her animals and concerned herself about the weather. She adored her son but didn't like her own scrawny daughter.
I remember when she looked at me in the rearview mirror. I was in trouble and knew I was going to get it when we got home. That didn't bother me but the look in her eyes did; disdain. Maybe for whatever I had done wrong but maybe just for being her daughter. My brother was in trouble all the time but she never looked at him like that. Even if she hit him or yelled awful things, she did not look at him the way she did me.
Sometimes she would say things like, "I used to look like you". It wasn't a compliment exactly, more like a curse. Sometimes she was being mean on purpose but also seemed to be trying to teach me the allure of womanhood. She actually said you should always keep men guessing; don't let them know what you're really thinking and how you really feel. Don't say an outfit is new if they compliment what you're wearing and don't try to explain yourself for being late or not showing up at all or for not doing what you said you would or for doing something you said you wouldn't. I guess that's mystery and I never caught on. I did learn one lesson.
"If you are beautiful, you will get hurt"
A girl that is pretty will get too much attention from boys (and men), nothing but jealousy and hate from women, and pain from beauty products processes and purchases. It's costly, and not just expensive.
Seems like it is better just to be a wallflower. Even overweight, unkempt, and ugly would be more sensabole than to be beautiful. But kids learn the unspoken. They keep the habits they are trained not the lessons they are taught. She was a pretty woman. Men always found her attractive. She was thin and fit despite never taking good physical care of herself. Her fingernails were always beautiful, perfectly almond shaped with polish that was never chipped though I don't recall ever seeing her care for them. It was hard to tell what she cared for or about. She was hurt often and often hurt others.
I always think about her in March. Lots of the things she said come back to me like grey wind and rain when the seasons are trying to change. "God and the rain will take care of it all Grandma used to say" Strange how that seemed to please her so much to repeat. Even now the first warm days lure me to a patch of earth where I dig and try to plow and plant. I plan a beautiful plot but only end up with dirty fingernails and pain in my hips. March always brings joint pain and headaches. I've stopping going to doctors about it. I have figured out where the pain comes from and it stretches back through the years like a telephone line. She called one day and asked if I could come back for a while. She needed comfort so I came and helped in the only field where I ever felt at home. Her medical care was simple- just comfort. As much pain medicine as she needed but she would even tell me I couldn't do that right. Her most tender words to me were that she knew I loved her and she loved me though I could never understand until I had a daughter of my own one day. My greatest gift to her was being her advocate when she said to the doctors, "I am not doing all of this".
She died of cancer in her bones and brain. I didn't get back to the farm until the day of the funeral. The casket was open and the service was about to start when we arrived. Despite palpable discomfort in the room it didn't seem strange at all to take her hand. Death was not uncomfortable. Even as they lay now still and cold, they were the one part of her that seemed to be my mother. She'd had beautiful penmanship. Her hands had held birthing and dying animals. They had held her grandchild, my brother's daughter. They were perfectly manicured.
