Changing Faces

I have been feeling my Mom lately.

It started last week when I read a question posted by a member of an online community I frequent about things we “miss”. I could blame it on the time of year, what with Halloween around the corner, but, for whatever reason, a memory popped into my head, complete with holiday cobwebs, and it has brought me comfort all week.

Every year, just before Halloween, my mother piled all four of us into her Vista Cruiser “woody” station-wagon, complete with backwards-facing rear seat, to purchase our costumes. Having four children now, myself, I have only just recently begun to appreciate her bravery….

Halloween costumes, at the time, came in rectangular, yellow and black, cardboard boxes with cellophane windows, behind which lay a cartoonish plastic mask, the hallmark of any 60’s era disguise. We chose a new one every year, but I remember only one.

I must have been about 10 at the time. After perusing all available selections, I chose what I believed to be the most sophisticated Halloween costume I had ever seen. The mask, behind the shiny plastic, portrayed a gorgeous blonde, whose permanently flipped hair and matte crimson lips embodied everything I dreamed to be. Underneath the plastic face lay a swath of golden nylon fabric, featuring black markings suggesting a stylish trench-coat.



I had never missed an episode of “Get Smart”, and my fascination lay not in a shoe that doubled as a telephone. I was fascinated by “Agent 99”. She was smart. She was sexy. When she spoke, her tones were low, soft, and commanding. She was everything I could hope to be when I grew up, and now, my wait was over…

We hurried off the school bus on October 31st, running as though darkness snapped at our heels. Waiting for Mom to finish cooking dinner was sheer, restless agony. When it was served, excited legs swung wildly beneath the table as we picked, and poked, and moved our food from one spot to the other, until the admonishment; “You have to eat! If you eat all that candy on an empty stomach, you’ll be sick!” Girlish eyes stole surreptitious glances round the table to ensure everyone participated accordingly. I was probably the first to declare, “But, sheeee’s not eating!”.

As darkness fell, and time marched on, Mom relented with appropriate scorn as we scraped our dinner into the trash, before heading to our bedrooms and the precious yellow and black boxes.

As I lifted the lid of the box, I noticed a corner of cellophane had parted from the trace of glue drawn across the inside of the lid. Running one finger around the corner, I attempted a repair before removing my new face to uncover my golden garment.

October chill warranted covered legs, and costumes were drawn over school clothes. I observed my reflection in the full-length mirror behind the door, and bemoaned the lack of stockings and stilettos for a minute or two, before sighing in resignation and heading back towards the bed, and the mask.

Exchanging faces, I carefully pushed my own hair up under the flimsy rubber-band securing my disguise, before turning once again towards my reflection. I leaned in close to assess my handiwork, and secured a few more natural blonde fly-aways. Standing back, I posed.

I must have stood there for several minutes, considering my new persona. I was blonde. My lips were full, blooming red, and accented by a Monroe-esque beauty mark. My golden trench-coat featured large, round buttons, deep pockets, wide lapels, and swaying sash. I was beautiful. And, my Mom called.

Jerking open my bedroom door, my Keds barely touched the linoleum as I entered the family room, and awaited the ooohs and ahhhs I could already hear inside my 10 year-old head.

My sisters gawked. I can’t recall their masks, but I do remember their silence, which was broken only by loud, raucous laughter.

I turned in the direction of the sound, to see my mother, in full abandon, bent forward, clutching her knees; her mouth agape in deference to her mirth. She moved towards me as tears filled her jade-green eyes, and uncontrollable laughter shook her entire body. Falling to her knees, she put her arms around me, and rocked me in spasms of joy. Every few moments, she pulled back, and, as her eyes fell once again upon my unmovable façade, collapsed again.

Finally, regaining her composure, she rose, and with a smile that shone through her eyes, looked down at me and said in a barely composed voice, “You’ve got to take that thing off; at least for now. You can put it back on when you go to the door.”

It wasn’t the reaction I had hoped for, but it was a reaction. It was approval. And, it was enough. I walked towards the door, mask in hand, and happy.

And, today, as I observe my reflection over a blouse of green or blue, that same jade creeps into my own eyes, and I remember…


© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll