She leaned forward, upper thighs pressing into the counter’s edge, eye to eye in a steady stare less than a foot from the mirror. The lovely bluish glow of the predawn was masked by the cabaret-bright lights of the bathroom’s vanity mirror. Mrs. “Mrs.” Gorgonsen steadied her tweezer-wielding hand and began to pluck, one by one, each tiny hair that threatened to encroach on the eyebrow’s intended shape of Youthful Allure. One by one, she felt the pain’s tiny hot flash bestow unto her this morning’s pious allotment of thrill. One by one, she stuck each removed hair bulb to the mirror’s edge in a gross little collection of what she was not. One by one, she declared victory over her face, watching it match her expectations and submit to her instructions. She didn’t err into the slightly-too-angular territory of Sly Vixen Harlotry; no, the Mrs. was a good Christian woman who kept her eyebrows the shape of Untouchable Beauty, if leaning slightly toward an air of Pleasant Surprise and Enthusiasm. Wonderful. There. It was done. She lifted her chin and blinked several times. Perfect.

She gave a curt nod to the tiny pile of brow-whiskers stuck to left side of the mirror, an intentional act of visual disgust that would ensure she would come back to clean the whole bathroom promptly after she was done putting her face on and making breakfast for the Mr.

Next, the creams. She opened three small vessels, each of which cost about $50 more than the last, and she gingerly dabbed her fingertips in. These she spread circularly on the skin until it was reddened and glowing with a sheen of fragrant amplification. It was as if underground blood vessels had been called to arms to expose all blemishes from their hiding places. Unalarmed by this process, the Mrs. sprayed and patted her visage with another series of products, knowing it would soon calm the skin back down so it could be properly coated with gesso. There it was. Back nearly to how it started. But much better and brighter, she was sure.

The gesso. It was a tube of expertly-matched fancy modern facepaint in Pure Classic Creamy Ceramic Beige. It coated every last pore with a smooth satin finish, obscuring the marks of living. There. Good. The Mrs. now looked like a light butternut squash onto which someone had delicately penciled some features. A nice clean canvas.

The birds were singing on the tree outside the window, as the dawn was pinking its way into consciousness. The Mrs. noticed this none, as she opened her bedazzled pink pouch of art supplies. The intense focus required in order to wield these volatile concoctions, especially in the early morning hours, was a feat indicative of her tenure as Woman. The masterful degree of non-attachment evinced by the ability to pore over these arts with such care each day, only to wash them down the drain the same evening: surely she had earned a belt or two toward Enlightenment, no? Surely the resources were worth the education many times over. She contemplated this as she pawed through her pouch for a handful of tapered instruments and facial condiments. Next: the eyes!

The eyes of course mattered the most, as they would be interpreted at every waking moment of interaction. They needed to convey everything from Admirable Goodness to Enthusiastic Attention to Polite Acquiescence to Tender Happy Youth. (All while maintaining the steady undertone of Untouchable Beauty, of course.) The Mrs. chose a series of natural rosy pinks on this day, warming her eyelids up to a temperature forty degrees higher than the chilly November air. She then painted on a nice distinguished black to limn the lash line exactly. Sighing after each eye, noting for a moment that she’d again held her breath as she did for photos, good news, bad news, and the sound of a key in the front door, the Mrs. took a moment to smile at her lovely work. Expert level as usual. Finally, she fluffed the everloving shit out of her eyelashes, combing lacquer into them to achieve a volume-boosting effect reminiscent of a thoroughly back-petted cat. When her lashes were 3 times the bouffant of their original setting, she blotted them daintily with a tissue and admired her work. Friendly. Smartly elegant but not too regal for a simple daytime shopping trip. Relatable.

At last, the Mrs. arrived at her favorite part: the blush. For this trick, she was simply to smile and then highlight the beauty of her smile with a soft brush on the cheeks; how utterly pleasing. She took extra care every time to give herself ideas for Genuinely Warm Smiles, so that the blush would be perfectly placed. She wanted the art to be worthy of its efforts. This morning, she thought of these thoroughly pleasing things: 1) Magpie’s new little booties that would keep her paws safe from road salts, 2) the neighbor’s remark on the perfect positioning of the Christmas lights yesterday, 3) the likelihood that she would bake a pie that very afternoon, and of course 4) the wonderful satisfaction of a quiet house as she tended her morning ritual. After a few strokes of the giant floof of blush-brush, it was done.

Last, but certainly not least, was the lipstick. The Mrs. was rather oldschool in this regard: Red. She found no reason to hide the fact that she was wearing lipstick, and in fact she wanted to bring attention to the wonderful job she had done with the rest of the face, and so Red was the obvious choice. Classic, sturdy, friendly Red. In an extra layer of benefit, it helped to reinforce the notion that she was a natural blonde, for reasons of rutted-in subliminal cultural associations well beyond her ken. What the Mrs. knew was that Red was the correct color for her lips and that she had a whole box of various forms & shapes & names of Red. Today she chose the one called The Great Babe Rouge, because it made her feel like part of an inside joke.

And finally it was done. The sun had begun casting sparkles off the morning snow, and it was clearly time to get the breakfast on before the house started stirring. The Mrs. gave herself a noble nod, having used the mirror to the fullest extent of its usefulness on that morning’s visit. She gathered her ample bosom back up into her velveteen robe, patted her well-placed hair, donned her giant slippers once more, and padded down to the kitchen.

 

-**

There was a sharp double rainbow circle following her all through the frozen relocated clouds. Feet just itched for a barefoot day, even as she found childlike joy in crunching through crust-topped mounds in her bulky black-furred stompers. Her woolen socks were already disappointingly soaking wet, somehow slipped down that insufferable half-inch that is just too much to ignore and yet not enough to bother with the five-minute drudgery of removing and replacing the boots. So, Nordic dog walker that she was, she focused her attention on the visual delights of December.

As usual, there were tiny smiles volunteering from, on average, one snowflake per square foot all across the suburban tundra. However, on this sunlit morning walk, “Mrs.” Gorgonsen was finding herself dwindling and dawdling just as much as her sweet little Magpie in the smart red plaid jacket that brought out the deep chocolate notes of her spectacular curls.

For the record, Magpie was, like any good miniature Cavalier King Charles worth its breeding costs, both good-looking and wily. Her leash-holder’s usual “two birds with one stone” approach [1], which consisted of a break-neck pace that provided each of them with a toned rear, offered only two very small windows of opportunity to do her proverbial business. She took today’s unexpected deviation from the norm as an excuse to make several different yellow holes in the pristine snow. Once she tired of that, she took to nosing down into the freezer for the good stuff, finding hidden piles of decay, eating things she shouldn’t while her two-legged promenade partner daydreamed. What a holiday! What a joy! What a worthwhile outcome of having to put on that ridiculous Dolce-n-Gablowme fashion piece that matched the Missus’ scarf-and-hat set.

Meanwhile, The Missus, as it were, was watching a double rainbow reflected in the snow. Never before had she seen such stark colors before her. Never before had the light spectrum chosen her, her, to witness its private display of grandeur. Sure, she had read accounts of tremendous beauty, seen the National Geographic spreads and watched the youtube video [2] her kids pulled up a few times. But for a piece of it to lay itself at her feet, unabashedly glowing right into her eyes, holding her gaze with a tenacious passion for all the world to see? It was magnificent. It was flabbergasting. It was a little bit embarrassing. She felt—and she would describe it this way to no one, not even her dog (who was at the moment feasting on partially decomposed bird thigh)—as though she were suddenly an adolescent boy with a very obvious erection, hoping that no one saw, yet still drawn to stare at the inspiration of such unavoidable arousal. How shamefully liberating! She must take a hot bath when she and Magpie got back home.

“MAGPIE!” Really. Had she no discipline? The pooch had engaged such a daring indulgence of her rebellious nature, she was actually digging up the small potted evergreen in the neighbor’s yard. How she had made it through all that frozen earth was a great mystery, but rather than staying to explore the situation, Mrs. Gorgonsen allowed her inner teenager to yank on the retractable leash and lead them both as far from that house as they could get in one minute.

When she regained her composure, “Mrs.” experienced a moment of belly-dropping panic. The rainbow was nowhere in sight. Where had her secret companion gone? She spun around in the snow, looking wildly for the spectacular split of spectral splendor. It was not to be found; in that maddening moment, she felt the acute hollow nesting place of a dreadful beast who lived right below the inexplicable joy that had just been touched. The cavern throbbed one dark, hidden note of finality, and then it, too, left her. Infuriating, in a way that only things which are out of one’s reach as well as out of one’s awareness can infuriate.

It was over. Something was over, and Mrs. “Mrs.” Gorgonsen had only just begun to glimpse it before she was so rudely cut off. Stupid dog. Stupid neighbors. Stupid property rights. Isn’t it always the way, mused her morose voice-over, that the minute I find something good, the minute God gives me something that is just for me, someone else comes and creates havoc, makes me crazy, and takes it away? Every time. Every time!! And she was off, letting her disappointment make broad, sweeping accusations and assessments. Every time!!!!

Having crunched back to her front walk in this distracted manner, cursing everything from the shampoo her husband finished off last week to the second grade lunch table incident, “Mrs.” was completely engrossed in her grumpiness by the time she saw the double rainbow again. It winked up at her from the shiny land iceberg next to her driveway and she yelped like Magpie, frozen in her tracks, dropping the plastic bag of shit [3] and resuming her praise for the angels.

-**

1. Or “two loaves with one knife,” for those dedicated to ahimsa. **patented MC phrase, free for public use as of this writing.**

2. In case you missed it the first time: look into the rainbow, look into your soul!

3. The dog dodged it, looked up at the entranced woman, and promptly began chewing through the plastic.