By Kathy Oswalt-Forsythe
Several weeks ago, my mother and I were enjoying breakfast at Rise-n-Dine when Mark Royal, one of my former classmates, greeted us on his way out. I hadn’t seen Mark in over thirty years. It was wonderful to see him, and our brief interaction reminded me of my youth and the kindness of his mother, Vera Royal.
When I was in 7th grade, most of my girlfriends were starting to wear some make-up. Some were pretty skilled at application and selecting colors, and some were clueless.
My mom recognized my growing interest in wearing cosmetics as I began dabbling with her lipsticks and powders, but she didn’t offer any advice.
Instead, one Saturday morning, she took me to Hills Pharmacy and passed me into the capable hands of Vera Royal, who was working at the cash register and monitoring the gift section of the pharmacy that day.
“Vera,” my mom said, “could you help Kathy pick out some makeup?” Now Vera was always busy and always, always, always kind. She was a beautiful woman who raised twelve attractive children. I was only acquainted with the youngest four of her brood, but they were all strikingly good-looking. If we had all lived in Los Angeles or New York City, those kids would have been discovered and been successful models.
I am not exaggerating.
Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Great smiles and personalities.
Those Royals were poster children for “Got Milk” or “Wonder Bread: Builds Strong Bodies Twelve Ways!”
I had no idea my mom would ask Vera to do this. Maybe they had set it up ahead of time? Perhaps there was some kind of compassionate-mom-look these two gave each other? But Vera didn’t miss a beat, like this was something she did every day for nervous and awkward thirteen-year-olds.
“Of course,” she said. “Kathy, come over here to the better light and let’s take a look.” She somehow put me at ease and picked out some products: mascara, a creamy light blush stick, and a soft green eyeshadow crayon—all very tasteful and appropriate and products I would use to this day if they were still available. My mom met me at the cash register, Vera rang it all up, and Mom and I left the store.
I walked just a little more confidently towards the car.
Fast forward to the February Winter Dance.
I stayed at Leeanne Gillespie’s house that night (she’s now Leeanne Seaver), where we spent time applying our make-up, doing our hair, and assuring each other we looked good. “Yes, someone will dance with you.” And “Yes, that shirt works with your jeans.” Or “Yes, the back of your hair looks great.”
Leeanne’s mom dropped us off, and we nervously entered the darkened gym. While my dance card wasn’t completely full, I did dance and have fun, all while wearing my new makeup. And I survived and eventually thrived in 7th grade.
I have had excellent make-up consultants in my adulthood, but I am forever grateful to Vera and her gentle boost of confidence.
And clearly her kindness passed to her children, because I suspect it was Mark who anonymously paid our breakfast bill!
It’s a Fine Life.
