THE MAKE-UP CHAIR
by
Janet Flora
The Yalobusha Review, 2003
The pretty, petite, 30-year-old woman needed no introduction when she came into the makeup room at Court TV. Pinned to her chest, like a poster on a milk carton, were photos and information about her father, who was last seen on the 94th floor of the north tower in the World Trade Center on Tuesday, September 11, 2001. It was now Friday. She and her brother and sister had come to talk about their search, and to show pictures of their dad on TV.
I have been standing in one makeup room or another for the past 20 years. I have stood in this particular makeup room at Court TV, in midtown Manhattan, for the past four years.
I've worked on soap operas and feature films. I'm skilled at making others look the part. Sometimes it means adding blood, or removing perspiration. Sometimes it means making people look glamorous, better-or sometimes just feel better.
But I didn't know if I could do either for this young woman, or if she wanted me to try.
The intimate act I perform includes not only the face—but someplace deeper. Seeing the reporter, or the anchor, before they go on camera, is not very different from what the world sees. Even though I may smooth out the complexion, define a brow, or exaggerate a lip; the real transformation is in the ritual itself.
It involves close proximity, touch and trust. Part of that trust is often immediate, simply because I am recognized as the hired professional with a long list of credentials. But it is the daily repetition of the process—like a well-rehearsed routine between dance partners—that establishes confidence and comfort that goes beyond makeup.
We were in the midst of that process when the first plane hit, just before 9 A.M. Our regular programming was cancelled. I wanted to go home. But our anchors and reporters had to go on the air to report the details of the attack. And they still needed, if not to feel their best—to look like themselves—the people our viewers depended on for analysis and facts.
I didn't know yet how many people would be declared dead or missing. I didn't know yet that some of the families of the missing would pass through our studio. I didn't know yet that not only the city I was born and raised in had changed forever, but all its people and the world as well.
But, when I left the building at noon to get something to eat, and saw the migration of men and women walking north up Third Avenue, smeared with gray ash, I knew that this powdery substance might wash off-but would still leave a permanent residue on their skin.
Returning to the makeup room, I took some powder and rouge and went into the studio to touch up the anchors who were on a short break. They didn't really need more makeup, but it wasn't really powder or color I wanted to add—it was simply all I had.
In the days following the attack, we continued to report on the crisis rather than returning to our usual programming, which had been interrupted. But none of our lives had been as interrupted as the young woman who sat down in my makeup chair to get ready for her appearance on TV.
We looked at each other's reflection in the mirror. Her pecan-colored, chin-length hair framed large green eyes.
Running her index finger over two pimples on her chin, she said, "My skin has not broken out like this since I was a teenager."
"I can fix that," I said, relieved to be of some use.
I started to fasten the makeup cape around her neck, but stopped when I realized I would be covering the photos of her father with the black fabric of the cape. After applying some liquid foundation, I busied myself brushing concealer and powder over the blemishes that were pebbly and pink on her otherwise smooth olive skin. We both looked at the result in the mirror.
She nodded her head up and down approvingly and said, "You made them disappear."
I nodded too. The ritual was in motion, but I still felt tentative, unsure about continuing.
Over the years at Court TV, many people have passed through the makeup room not because of any celebrity or expertise. They too had come to talk about an agonizing ordeal. There was the father of Amadou Diallo. And the parents of the teenagers killed when a drunk driver slammed her car into the car full of teens on spring break. But that was different. Time had passed, a year or more. They were used to masking their pain, and my presence seemed welcomed. The mother of one of the teenagers chatted with me, commenting on the view of the urban skyline from our studio on the 19th floor. She said, "I wish I could see you every morning. I love the way you made me look."
But I wasn't sure how to make this young woman look.
So I asked. "Do you think we should do some eye makeup?"
She ran her hand over her chest as if straightening a fine garment, and said, "You know, my dad would want me to look nice on TV."
Bending at the waist, so I could be eye-level with the photos held on her tee shirt with safety pins, I examined the pictures of her father. She had his green eyes and olive skin. His hair was fashionably cropped short and beginning to gray. There was a photo of her mother and father together, and another with his children, and one of him alone smiling for the camera. He was 52 years old.
"He is so handsome," I said. "You look like him. Let's make sure you look nice."
"What is your name?" I asked.
"Alfie," she said.
"Alfie?"
"It's short for Alfia. That was my grandmother's name."
I nodded. And she smiled at me. This was the first time we were looking at each other rather than our reflections in the mirror.
I put a thin line of brown pencil on her upper lids and some waterproof mascara on the outer lashes. Finally I brushed a berry-colored lip stain on her mouth.
Her brother and sister came in as I was straightening the ends of her hair with the blow-dryer.
"Where are you going to the prom?" her brother said. We almost laughed. I asked her sister if she would like some makeup. She looked at me, then at Alfie.
Alfie said, "Do it. It feels good."
Her sister sat down in the chair.