Budding

Some of you know I was a makeup artist for years.  An origin story, of sorts.

“Mama, can I press the button?” I asked, my hand poised over the vertical yellow strip beside my seat.  The strip was attached to the bell system of the K-Trans bus where Mama, Sissy, and I were current passengers.  We had just crossed the intersection of Gay and Main, and we had almost reached our destination.

“Yes, but only ring it once.  Don’t press it over and over like some people do.”

I would never.  I was ten years old, and in my opinion, mostly grown.  Such childish behavior was beneath me.  I touched the strip once and heard the satisfying ting of the bell.  The bus slowed to a stop in front of Revco on Gay Street, and the three of us were deposited onto the sidewalk.  The Dogwood Arts Festival was just a block away! 

The city bus let out a pneumatic hiss as we started down Union Avenue, leaving a smelly trail of sulfur fumes as farewell.

“Shoo!” I commented regally, “somebody pulled that bus’s finger.”  I silently congratulated myself on using a more mature euphemism.  I grabbed Mama’s hand to hurry her along. “C’mon, we’re almost there.”

The Dogwood Arts Festival was a week-long event held every year in the spring to celebrate the blooms as well as local artists and artisans.  Most of the action happened on Market Square, but free bus tours of the dogwood trails around Knoxville helped expand the festivities all over town.  School kids were given a day off to enjoy the festival (and hopefully pump some money into the local economy), and Sissy and I were appropriately excited.

We reached Market Square.  Every inch was packed with booths, tables, and swarms of people. I couldn’t wait to take a closer look. 

Mama plucked a pamphlet from a stand at the south end of the Square.  “Now, let’s see what all’s going on today.”  She bent her head to read it as I stood impatiently on my tiptoes for a better look.  “What do you girls wanna do?”

I wasted no time.  “I want to look at the jewelry and the pictures and maybe walk over to the library, and Mama can we go on a dogwood trail ride?  And can we have a funnel cake?”

“Let Sissy pick something, too,” Mama said.

“I will,” I told her.  Sissy was an easy-going kid.  We’d agree on plenty, especially the funnel cake.

Mama consulted the pamphlet again.  “Do you girls want to watch the cloggers?  They’ll be performing.”

“Yes!” cried Sissy and I in unison.  We considered clog dancers some of the most glamorous creatures on Earth, second only to baton twirlers and Miss America.

“Ohhh,” continued Mama, “And girls, Margie Ison’s gonna be here this afternoon.  She’s gonna host a fashion show!”

“Margie Ison?” I said, starstruck.  Mama and I just loved Margie.  She was the weather anchor on WBIR.  We thought she was beautiful and the epitome of class with her snazzy suit separates and soft accent. 

“Yep!” Mama replied. “It’s almost time for the cloggers to start, too, so let’s go find a place to stand.”

Margie Ison, cloggers, a fashion show? I had better pay attention.  I would soon be surrounded by my favorite manifestations of grown-up-ladyhood.  Mama was a good mama – often yielding, fiercely protective when necessary – but she lacked the gene that made her susceptible to feminine frippery.  Mama didn’t care about hairdos, cute outfits, makeup, or earrings.  What one saw was what one got – and what one saw was a no-nonsense, flame-haired fast-talker who couldn’t hide her beautiful blue eyes or full bosom no matter how unshaped her eyebrows were or how baggy her sweatsuit was.

I, on the other hand, had been born with a predisposition for color matching and the ability to paint my fingernails neatly using either hand. While these innate characteristics gave me the advantage over someone who thought it attractive to mix yellow plaid pants with a mauve blouse, I wasn’t yet old enough for backcombing or makeup application.  I needed to learn these skills out in the wild since my mother couldn’t teach me.

I wanted to be ready when the time was right.

We snaked our way through the crowd and found a place close to the side of the stage.  There was an announcement over the stage PA, and then a recording of “Orange Blossom Special” roared to life.  Eight cloggers – six women, two men – took the stage. 

The dancers clippy-clopped in unison, the women’s purple sequined skirts bouncing and twirling like full wine glasses accidentally sloshed in celebration.  The men wore purple pants that matched the skirts; they were no less dazzling than the women.  Someone in the crowd began to clap along.  Soon, we all followed suit. 

My feet couldn’t help but tip tap out a similar rhythm.  Loafers weren’t made to clog, so the best I could do was scratch out a back-and-forth motion on the concrete, like a skier.  When the song ended, we applauded loudly and watched them take a bow.  As they clippy-clopped away, I paid close attention to the female dancers’ heavy electric blue eyeliner and frosted pink lips.  I decided to remember the color combination for later.

I exhaled with satisfaction.  “Mama, what’s next?”

After an extended bus tour around Sequoyah Hills and a sweet, crunchy funnel cake, we made our way back to the stage.  The fashion show was to be hosted by Proffitt’s, our local department store, and modeled by the Teen Board.  The Teen Board was a group of high school girls whose special talents included looking cute in shoulder pads and competing for the title of Tallest Bangs.  I couldn’t wait to see their outfits. I knew these quasi-sophisticated Southern sylphs would steer me in the right direction.

Margie Ison strolled out on stage to heavy applause.  “There she is!  There she is!” Mama and I said to each other, clapping extra hard.  “Yay, Margie!” Mama yelled.

Margie’s outfit was a stunner.  She wore a creamy blush jacket and skirt ensemble dripping with fringe and soft suede ankle boots to match.  Her brunette hair was curled and teased into the shape of a rainbow.  In contrast, her eyes were ringed in black to balance the delicate hue of her outfit.    

I was enchanted.  She was easily as dazzling as Sue Ellen Ewing or Alexis Carrington.  I wasn’t sure how any outfit in the actual fashion show could top this one.

I made up my mind to one day own a closet full of fringed get-ups and a whole dresser full of makeup, no matter what it took.  There was simply no reason not to go around looking stunning if one could dress like a fancy cowgirl. 

Margie chatted with the audience for a minute and joked about the weather.  She then announced the first model, a junior from Rule High.  The model wore a stonewashed denim jumpsuit and big purple earrings shaped like triangles - a terrific outfit.  I thought I might need a denim jumpsuit in addition to my fringe separates, something more casual to wear when I was old enough to drive and needed to run to the Handy Dandy for a Slush Puppy and deli bologna.

Next, a senior from Bearden High sauntered out in a peach dress with a lace overlay.  Her hair was sprayed four inches out on every side, defying gravity, and her eyes were coated with enough inky mascara to write a novel.  I would also need this outfit for date nights in the future – although it seemed wise to stay away from bonfires or any other romantic activity sure to fan flames. 

And I would definitely need the shiny teal prom gown and dyed-to-match pumps worn by the model from South-Young.

By the end of the fashion show, I realized I had swooned over every single outfit, even the spandex exercise set that would never flatter my chubby legs.  But I was hooked.  Makeup, fashion, hair – the opportunities for both a career and department store discounts seemed endless.

“Wasn’t that awesome?” I asked Mama and Sissy, after Margie’s closing remarks.  I was worn out from the excitement, but a glow remained.  I would have plenty to think about on the bus ride home. 

“Mmm-hmm,” said Mama distractedly.  She didn’t seem to be paying attention as she looked over my head toward the stage.

“You wanna go get Margie’s autograph?” she asked suddenly.

“Margie’s autograph?” I repeated in astonishment.  “Can we do that?”

“Heather, we can do anything we set our minds to,” Mama said.

I was torn.  I didn’t want to miss the opportunity, but I was far too shy to ask her myself.

“Mama, will you ask her for me?  Please?” I pleaded, yanking the pamphlet printed with the day’s schedule out of her purse.

“Give it to me,” said Mama, cutting through the milling crowd to get backstage.

Margie was handing her microphone back to a stagehand.  Mama moved quickly and fearlessly.

“Hi, Margie!  We just love you!” she said cheerfully, not giving Margie a chance to speak.  She thrust the pamphlet and a dusty pen fished from the bottom of her purse right into Margie’s face.  “Would you sign this for my little girl?  She’s a big fan.”

I gave a little wave from several steps away.  I tried my best to look poised, like a future Teen Board contender.

Margie Ison spoke warmly.  “Well, I’d be happy to.  What’s her name?”

“Heather,” replied Mama and I simultaneously.  I was proud to have discovered my voice, even for just a moment. 

Margie signed with a flourish and handed the pamphlet back to Mama.

“Thank you!” I exclaimed, finding the courage to grab Mama’s hand to lead her away before she started bragging on me and Sissy, like she did to everybody.

“Would you keep my autograph in your purse until we get home, Mama?” My heart was full of love for them both.

“Give it here, honey.”

I was once again filled with energy.  “Can we go to the library now?  I want to look at the fashion magazines.”  The library had paper and pencils, too, in case I needed to take notes.

“We need to get home and make some supper,” she answered, “but we’ll go to the library this weekend. I promise.”  Mama began to steer us in the direction of the bus stop.

I guess I could wait until the weekend.  In the meantime, there were other ways to get intel.

“Can I stay up and watch the eleven o’clock news?  I want to see if Margie is wearing a different outfit tonight.”

“We’ll see.”

After today’s events, I was well on my way to learning the frippery-do-dahs of style.  I was hopeful the future would bring lots of beautiful things.

I paused briefly to stand on a pink dogwood that had been painted on the asphalt.  I tilted my face to the sky and let the sun warm me.  It had been a wonderful day.  I decided I would leave Margie’s autograph on top of my dresser instead of in a drawer, as a reminder that everyday glamour was possible. 

Happy, I tippy-tapped a few steps in my loafers and ran to catch up with Mama. 

Me and Margie meet again, 2001