The Inside Stays Beautiful

My mother was a strikingly beautiful Norwegian blonde, always meticulous in her appearance. When she was 88, she sustained a devastating fall, breaking bones in her neck. She was forced to wear a Frankenstein-like halo brace for three months. When the brace came off, she stayed in rehab to relearn how to walk so she could return home to her garden and her cat.

One day Mom asked me for a mirror. “I look terrible,” she said. “I need to get to the beauty shop.” Happily, there was a salon in her facility, and I got her an appointment that day. Satisfied with her hair, Mom wanted to make other improvements. “My nails are a mess, and where’s my makeup?”

A manicurist did Mom’s nails and I retrieved her makeup bag from home. Watching her apply her blush and mascara, I marveled at her dexterity. After she was finished, I told her how pretty she looked.

“I might seem old and rickety,” she said. “But I’m still me.” And she was. She still had the same indomitable spirit and gleam in her blue eyes.

Every day thereafter, Mom put on a touch of makeup. I helped her comb her hair, and once a week, she had it done at the beauty shop. Her attitude and self-esteem improved, and we were both so proud.