I hear her in her bedroom making a video tutorial: "I'm going to show you how to get a pretty and fast 'smoky eye.' I know some people only use gray, but I think brown makes it look really pretty--it pops!"
Like a bright child pursuing an exhaustive knowledge of dinosaurs, twelve-year-old Adele studies makeup with passion and intensity. When she's not doing homework, practicing sports or playing with her neighbor friend, she's busy experimenting with a wide assortment of brushes and powders.
My basic rule for her is "No makeup at school." Plus, lately, I've added a few specific restrictions, such as, "No liquid foundation."
No liquid foundation? I wouldn't have guessed I'd need to set this particular limit with a sixth grader.
"Why not?" she protests at the drugstore. "Colette used to have some."
"No. She only used it as a spot concealer. And we threw it out."
"Then how about tinted moisturizer?" Adele bargains.
"No. You have beautiful natural skin."
"Fine," she harrumphs, heading to the loose mineral powders, weekly allowance in hand.
For Christmas, Adele asked for makeup lessons, so I scheduled a floor appointment for her at MAC and bought her Bobbi Brown's Makeup Manual. At bedtime, I read to her from Bobbi Brown: "I used to experiment with concealer on lips to make a pale lip color statement while doing Brigitte Bardot-inspired, dark, smoky eyes...." Adele listens with rapt attention. It's getting late, and I yawn.
"Keep reading," she says.
"The best artists continually want to learn," I read. "Artists who think they know everything don't grow."
When Adele was a baby, I said she was my little Sophia Loren. A fine-featured beauty with a glamorous look, her dark eyes sparkled. Her appeal was magnetic.
When she was two, still toddling about the house sucking a pacifier, her big sister said to me, "When Adele grows up, she's going to be the kind of person everybody knows. I'll ask people, 'Do you know my sister?' and they'll say, 'Adele? Of course!'"
Adele's small dresser now holds a large basket of brushes, mascaras, eyeliners, eyeshadow palettes, blushes and lip glosses, each organized in separate cups and cosmetic bags. The looks she creates are frequently stunning. "Wow!" I can't help but say. "Nice cat eyes! How did you do that?"
Steve and I live in a world populated by academics and vegetarians, so we were at first nonplussed by this developing interest and expertise. Sometimes I fret about it--about the effect of the beauty industry on young girls, about sex roles and stereotypes, about the related focus on appearance. A friend who teaches middle school and whose children are grown reassures me, "It's okay. We all need something to outgrow."
I imagine there's a high likelihood that our pre-teen daughter will outgrow this current focus. But I intend to leave room for the chance that she won't. In the meantime, we're involved in it with her, honoring her flair and spirit, giving her the tools she needs to grow, in this case a round contour brush with dense bristles. I pick up a few tips for myself in the process. I buy eyeshadow primer--something Adele taught me about--and I ask the woman at the Lancome counter to show me a couple of eyeliners, something with a little zing, something that pops.
