Blue Line Beauty


 by Frances Peacock

Honorable Mention essay, 2014, Erma Bombeck Writing Competition,

I’ve seen all the ads for beauty products. Revlon and Maybelline spend millions making women pretty, but I have news for them: I don’t need any fixes. I’m forty-eight years old, and – I’ll try to be humble here – I am a vision of loveliness from head to toe.

If you don’t believe me, please raise your hand. I’ll bring my collection of portraits over to your seat.

It’s great to be a teacher. When a child draws my picture on a piece of notebook paper, I look like myself, only ten times better.

The child draws me as if I were a model in a fashion magazine. She gives me a slender figure and a pair of long, gorgeous legs. She puts me in a snazzy party dress with three- inch high heels. She glitters my lips. Sometimes she places a crown on my head.

She gets me all dolled up, and every inch of me – the shoes, the lips, the snazzy dress – is striped with the blue lines of the paper. I look fabulous in blue lines.

When a child hands me her work, I could accept it with a quick “Thanks, honey,” and pat her on the head. I might chalk it up as just a page of coloring, the creative diversion of a six-year-old.

Or, I can take a deeper look. I can stop for a moment and study it, and then I begin to understand what the child has done with her crayons:

She has sketched me, her teacher,  as the magnificent person she perceives me to be. She has endowed me with every good and glamorous attribute. She has turned me into a red-hot mama. Because she loves me.

It’s a wonderful gift when a child draws my picture. She uses her own crayons for the task, and crayons don’t come easy when you’re six. If a child runs low on crayons, she’s out of luck, and she knows it. She can’t grab the car keys and drive down to the drugstore to buy a new box.

Children guard their crayons like misers guard their gold. They share them only with people they trust, they don’t let them roll off the edge of the table, and they choose their coloring projects carefully.

A child’s handmade picture is a gesture of great value. Nothing compares to this compliment. Where else could I get such a spectacular glow? This stuff can’t be bottled, and it’s not for sale at the Macy’s makeup counter.

Ladies, next time you’re feeling the beauty blahs, I suggest you find yourself a six-year-old, and hand her a fresh box of Crayolas.

If she loves you, she’ll know what to do.

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