Family Life and the Secrets of the Mistress of the Universe

I went to use my delicate little manicure scissors the other day. The ones with the faux tortoise shell grip that I’ve had since 1983. Some women pride themselves in being on the cutting edge of beauty products with those wrinkle eliminators or the facelift in a bottle, hair brighteners, eye pouch deflators and all such ablutions from the world of the super-models, Wonder Bras and Victoria’s Secret. I’d be willing to bet, though, that just about every woman over 40 has at least one favorite item that dates back to a time when products were more simple and practical. A product that they found to look just right or to work in exactly a way that they, as an individual, are comfortable with, so that they have habitually made a permanent place for said product in the prime real estate of the family bathroom cabinet.

Aside perhaps from Revlon lipstick Moon drop series, color #450 amethyst smoke, those scissors, are my cosmetic comfort tool. I received them in an antique manicure set from a thoughtful man I was dating way back in 1983. The set came with an array of important looking devices that, by virtue of owning them, afforded me, I thought, a place in the interior of those in the know on beauty secrets of the sophisticated set. All of the implements had faux tortoise shell grips, as did the scissors. I know it is faux tortoise shell because that’s what the antique store tag identified the material as “Faux Tortoise Shell.” Faux, because I’m sure that any sophisticated beauty such as I thought myself to be, would not consider usage of implements, no matter how convenient, that were classified as fake, imitation, ersatz or any other name that would identify said implements as phony. That would reveal me as a fraud in my know-how of the beauty world. Faux, is French. And we all know that anything French is just dripping with sensuality and beauty know-how. Which is why, I’m sure that the “Faux Tortoise Shell” manicure set is lovingly protected in a silky satin roll, providing each tool with its own little resting place. Its own private space to which it is returned after toiling upon my nails to create gleaming buffed fingertip pearls, neat cuticles, evenly trimmed nails and ah well I really don’t know what else. The set includes 9 items, most of which I still have no idea what purpose they serve but there they are, important must-haves of fingernail beauty and maintenance for those in the know.

I’m proud that after 25 years, I still have all the pieces of the Faux Tortoise Shell manicure set- (Did I mention the F.T.S. is pink? Yes pink, obviously to further highlight to the less beautifically-abled that anyone handling these items is not only chic and in vogue, but the epitome of femininity as well.) So, the F.T.S. set is intact and wrapped in the pink silky satin envelope, which is luxuriously encased in beautifully crafted “Faux Snakeskin” made out of “Genuine Leather.” The tag sewn into the, no doubt, faux silk, satin, tells me this set is “Premium” should there be any doubt.

I have on many occasions, (all when I was single) lit candles around the bathtub and soaked until- well until I was bored- and then patted myself dry with a plush towel. Patting because that’s how those other beauties on television soap operas and in magazine ads dry off, as not to abrade their delicate skin. I’d pat myself dry and put on my most luxurious robe to retire to the boudoir, (again, notice the French) and begin to primp with my creams and gels, hair irons and powders, but none identified me as the feminine beauty that I imagined myself to be, wrapped in my faux silk robe with the subtle hearts shimmering in the material, as did the “Faux Tortoise Shell, Genuine Leather, Premium” manicure set, with the tools, each in their respective space, gleaming like a surgeon’s, all safely tucked until I unrolled the case and went to work. I filed tips and removed cuticles, I buffed and polished, I evened and double coated. I inspected and admired the job and was pleased. I did some obligatory flouncing around the boudoir and inspected my hands from several angles. The slightly shocked, hand to the throat, move. Lovely. The sophisticated extended hands, not the all business handshake for power lunches, but the two-handed reach reserved for dear friends and funerals. Perfection! I reveled in my femininity. I felt sexy and secure in my bachelorette, 4-room apartment. Mistress of my Universe, ready to take on the world.

So I was somewhat distressed the other day when I went to use my scissors from the F.T.S set and it was nowhere to be found. In truth, after 18 years of family-hood in marriage and the boy’s club, (two sons and a husband) the set itself has long since been lovingly stored (where else?) in my lingerie drawer to await my reemergence from domestic existence to the well-preserved, sexy, secure older woman type that I plan to be some years down the road. But in the interim between Mistress of the Universe and Icon of Mature Beauty I stay secretly connected to the inner beauty world and when I ceremoniously use my delicate F.T.S scissors that sits, still in service not in the lingerie drawer but separate from the set on the shelf in the medicine cabinet next to my nail clipper and tweezers, soldiers now in the war against drudgery. Minutemen if you will, quick to the hand in the 10-minute hair, makeup beauty regimen of a modern-day mother with real-world responsibilities. Faithful tools, ever at the ready for the rare moments when the bathroom is private, quiet, and blissfully mine.

Although it never really presented itself as a tool I found useful for manicures, the F.T.S. scissors are the perfect size for snipping off errant hairs from my eyebrows as I culture them into the perfect arch above my eyes. No plucking, no waxing, no pain, no problem. These implements of beauty have just the perfect heft and angle in my hands to do the job. The small point is precise and the slight curve of the blades provides pinpoint accuracy to the single hair. The house was quiet. The moment had come. I open the cabinet door to find my efficient F.T.S scissors, M.I.A.

I looked high, then low, then lower. Behind half used jars of failed promises beauty goop (that’s a whole other article) then behind retired, but just in case, toothbrushes and the Old Spice deodorant (also another article having something to do with Freud) but without success. I always put it back with care, right where it belongs so how can it be missing?

Then, in a flash I knew, just knew I had not misplaced my longtime connection to the sacred world of beauty aids. After almost two decades of being married and a mom, I had more than a passing introduction to the world of good bath towels being used for car rags and pretty hand towels being used as a napkin to wipe a milk moustache or worse, a moist armpit. Or my water resistant, indoor/outdoor chair cushions that match the table umbrella I’d envisioned being used for fabulous cocktail parties, used by my son and company for sledding down Suicide Hill behind the school.

I have bought nail clippers and tweezers for every member of the family – more than once as insurance that mine will be right where I left them. I repeat this ritual every Christmas with stocking gifts for all and sometimes for birthdays and often as Easter gifties too. And I know the reason that my tools are always the most popular ones in the house and why they migrate so consistently away from where they belong. It’s because I put them back where they belong when I’m finished using them. Anyone in the house can go to my spot with reasonable surety that they’re going to find what they’re looking for, thanks to me. Where are all the ones I’ve given to them over the years? Probably with the drier socks in the mystery netherworld of missing stuff.

It’s a novel idea, I know, and one that the male breed doesn’t seem to understand. The milk goes back in the refrigerator. Clean clothes go back in the drawers. The phonebook goes back in the cabinet and the phone, back in the cradle. But they never seem to experience the frustration of going to look for something and not being able to find it. And, if, on the rare occasion, some fairy from the Kingdom of Cleanup hasn’t magically returned an item to its proper place, all they have to do is utter the magic words, “Mom/Honey, where’s the fill in the blank?” And amazingly, verbal directions arrive to the rescue.

But my F.T.S. scissors. This is too far. I rampage and no one seems to know what I’m even talking about, never mind have an answer. “O.K.,” I tell myself, “calm down. “Faux Tortoise Shell” is too much for them to handle.” I try again. “Tiny scissors? Medicine cabinet? Pink handles?” Jackpot.

“Oh yeah.” Says the husband. “I saw them. They were in Luke’s room with your hot glue gun.”

“Glue?” This didn’t sound good. “Where in his room? I ask, trying to quell rising agitation heading for the stairs.

“They’re not there now. I used “em in the shower. They still work even with the glue. They”re probably still there.”

Passing agitation now and bordering indignation. “In the shower? What did you do with them in the shower?”

“Yeah, those are great.” He says. “They’re just the right size.”

I know I don’t want to ask but I have to. “Right size for what?”

“I needed something to cut my nose-hair and when I saw them in Luke’s room… they worked perfect.”

Violation! Irreverence! Disgust! “Ugh!”

I see the all-too-familiar, you’re crazy look on his face when he realizes that I’m pretty upset. Nothing I can say will make him understand that those scissors are a connection to not only my past but also a time in my past when I was someone exciting and beautiful. I was single and had my own place. I owned my own business and had people lining up…well, occasionally, who wanted to date me. I was the Mistress of My Universe and I got to flounce with faux silk robes and I skin patted with plush towels. When beauty was a hobby, not a fading memory. Now, when I reach to use those scissors in my fleeting 10-minute regimen completed dutifully, so as not to scare anyone who may see me, I am briefly transported to a time when a man bought me an antique gift, just because. A time when hours were spent trying on for just the right outfit, and for that brief moment I can imagine that there is still hope for a life with a glimmer of a cosmopolitan flair. Maybe one day we will have a cocktail party on the patio and maybe I will be a silver haired beauty that will capture the eye of my husband even when I’m sixty. That my elegance and sophistication will be such that even those up and coming, young, flouncing, nubiles will have to resign themselves to the fact that an older woman with character is a force with which to be reckoned – one with obvious beauty secrets like a “Faux Tortoise Shell” manicure set with the pieces nestled in pink silky, satin and protected by a “Genuine Leather, Faux Snake Skin” wrap.

How can I explain that so they’ll understand? The language barrier of emotions between my Universe and the boy’s club is just too daunting. I give up and go back upstairs to rescue my scissors with the F.T.S. handles. I scrape off the remnants of glue and paint. I dry them off and make sure there’s no permanent water damage. I make an executive decision as the Mistress and decide to keep all my beauty implements tucked in my lingerie draw. Hopefully, there’s nothing in there that will be a necessary confiscation for the boy’s club and they won’t be able to find them unless they’re making a double barrel slingshot or something.

I give a little sigh of relief when all nine pieces are back in they’re soft bed and resign myself to the very real fact that my “Universe” has been overtaken by virtue of the marriage treaty of 1990 and everything that Universe once was, has been banished to the reservation in the very small confined spaces of the no-man’s-land, lingerie drawer where they await the time when the shoes with heels, hats with nets, ¾ length gloves, and yes, manicures will once again, reign supreme. I am nothing if not patient. Sigh…C’est la vies!