By Anita Garner
Anita Faye Jones, new girl.
Our family had just arrived from the Deep South and I would be attending high school in glamorous Southern California. Daddy was one of those preachers who believed Jesus didn’t want to see makeup on a woman’s face.
This redhead has a thick Southern drawl but no discernible eyebrows
and lashes. They’re there. They’re blonde. You just can’t see them.
But I know this girl. If you tell her wearing makeup is a sin there’s every chance she’ll hide a makeup kit with a girlfriend, disappear into the bathroom at school after the official picture (the one her parents will see) is taken, and add some color.
The trick is to get to school early. Pencil in those eyebrows. Lay on mascara and lipstick, then scrub it all off before heading home. You could survive high school that way and then move away from home one minute after graduating.
Get yourself a roommate and rent an apartment. Bleach a rebel-blonde streak, pile on makeup and head to a photo booth.
1960 version of selfies
You have to have the duck-face poses. It’s part of the growing up process.
Within a few months, I went blonde, lied about my age, started singing in nightclubs and Daddy stopped speaking to me. Eventually we made up (sort of) over rice and beans and cornbread at his kitchen table.
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