They Say Beauty is an Inside Job

My first major makeover was in the spring of my senior year of high school.  I had been growing out my hair for months – maybe years – and I was tired of the whole bangs-and-pony-tail look that I sported. I admitted as much to the man who styled my hair and he invited me to be a part of a makeover show.

Let me preface this next part by saying that my stylist worked in the mall. His invite included a new outfit, a makeover at Merle Norman and a stylish new cut all in the middle of Wilmington’s Independence Mall. I was flattered and probably accepted immediately.

Let me also say that my luck in said mall was not the best. When I was thirteen, my birthday wish was to have my ears pierced. My entourage: Mama, Anna, Tina and Kristen all came at the Rings & Things – an ‘80s version of Claires; complete with orange shag carpet and mirrors lining the ceiling. It was on the ring of stores around the very middle of the mall near ‘the Hardee’s entrance’. It just so happened that anybody in the mall could watch the torture in the piercing chair as they walked by. It was not surprising that we were joined by our other friends, Lisa, Julie and Sherry Capell as they were doing some back-to-school shopping.

I’m not big on needles and that includes the very large nail gun that was/is used to pierce ears. I picked out my brand new golden bead earrings (that matched my add-a-bead necklace), sat in the chair at the front of the store and waited as the woman prepped the aforementioned nail gun. She marked both of my ears with green sharpie ink – making sure they were even holes. She sanitized the earrings. She aimed. She fired. She shot.

I was fine, really, I was. Until I heard my mother say, QUICK! Do the other one. Now! Now! Then, the world kind of got fuzzy as the girl quickly reloaded and shot through the green ink in the other ear. Before I knew it, I was on the floor of Rings & Things being hugged by orange shag carpet and watching myself in the mirrors above. I did not look well. Julie’s face came into view as she started singing the Kermit the Frog hit “It’s Not Easy Being Green”.

In an attempt to get me out of there, the torturer suggested that I get some fresh air. I don’t remember how I got outside but I soon found myself sitting on the curb outside of the Hardee’s entrance under an umbrella in the rain (sounds like a good country song, but wait, it gets better). There was a security guard hovering above me, talking to Mama. “Ma’am, I’m gonna have to get your name and number. There was a little ole lady who stopped and slipped onaccounta your daughter and she might sue the mall.” Turns out I puked in a similar shade of the orange shag carpet in the middle of the mall.

On the Saturday morning of my big makeover event, I gathered my entourage: Mama, Shelley, Anna, Nanny and my boyfriend, Pete.  I'm pretty sure the Capells showed, too. I’m sure they expected the same show that they got when I got my ears pierced! 

I can’t remember now where I shopped for my makeover outfit. I remember it being VERY preppy. Blue linen shorts,hurauche sandals and a crisp white blouse that was dotted with bright blue whales. I felt very buttoned up and the shorts were high-risers (fastened above my belly-button with pleats). I was generally well-dressed at school, but preferred tee shirts and Umbros. At the time, the fashion was to wear Umbros with boxer shorts underneath. The boxers were always color-coordinated with the Umbros with just a fraction of an inch hanging out the bottom and the top.

My next stop was Merle Norman. My makeup was classic 1989: blue eyeliner, blue eye shadow. I thought I looked ravishing.....and hey, it matched my whale of an outfit.

The final touch was my hair. I met my stylist (I want to say Jonathan or Benjamin) at his booth in the salon. He washed and toweled my hair and we walked to the center court of the mall. Today's court is filled with a carousel but, back then, it was a tiled penny pond with a waterfall and as a backdrop. He sat me down in the chair, covered me with the cape and began to clip. And cut. And snip. And comb. And cut some more. 
I think he clipped about four inches off so that my hair fell to my chin. He teased the sides and back and gave me wispy bangs (as opposed to the all-one-length barrel-curled version that I rocked for three years of high school). And, as the hair fell all around me, I felt myself fighting the tears that wanted to fall down my face. There is something heart-breaking about losing your hair as a teenager in the South - even when you choose to do it.

The crazy thing was that I couldn't see a thing! There were no mirrors for the hair or the outfit or the makeup - so I couldn't see it all together. As the emcee announced my name, I stood up and gave a shy little wave.  Pete took my picture with my stylist and I gave a stoic little smile. Mama thanked Benjamin or Jonathon or whatever his name was and we returned the outfit to the store.

They Say What Goes Around Comes Back Around

For the record, this account of the story is not true. It hasn't happened and is written in  the future tense as a way of setting up the story. Just an idea:

They say what goes around, comes back around.

I address the women, their parents and families from a podium on the campus’ front lawn.  

Here I am again! I say incredulously, turning in a circle with my arms half-raised, taking it all in. The crowd laughs and claps.

I have been here before, I say.  Twenty years ago, I was a Peace College graduate. I sat where you sit: shaded by these regal oaks, in front of this antique fountain, beneath these columns of Main dorm, with the smell of Krispy Kremes outweighing the scent of magnolias. I sat in a white off-the-shoulder, mermaid-fanned gown, wearing long white gloves and carrying red roses just like you. I walked across this stage and accepted a hand-shake from the president and my diploma from my favorite Dean.

I make eye contact with a girl on the front row. She looks familiar and a little like I did in 1991 – without the bangs. I think I met her earlier in the year and remember that she is the daughter of one of my classmates from 1991. I think her name is Julia.

This visit to campus is the last of the semester, my fourth since the fall. I was a guest lecturer for the freshman writing camp and served on a panel for the college’s literary magazine. When my book was released before Christmas, the President held a reception for me and Julia was on the student planning committee.

I know from her position and seat assignment that she is at the top her sophomore class. She is probably in the top ten academically at this all-woman’s college in the heart of downtown Raleigh. She is alternately smiling and rolling her eyes at her dad, who is dangerously close with his Canon. She is beautiful, just as the rest of the women who have joined her on the lawn.

I was just like you, I say, pointing to the young woman. I was excited, anxious, proud. I was looking forward to my next step: journalism school at the University of North Carolina. I was nervous about how I would deal with a much bigger school, the demands of specialized course work, the risk of seeing boys in class!  But I was proud of what I’d accomplished right here on this campus. I couldn’t see what my future held but I had faith in the expectations. I had a dream in my heart and big goals in my head.

I have to admit, what I really wanted was to be standing right here, giving the class speech to my sister graduates. Months before graduation day, months before the vote for class speaker, I began writing what I would say to express my love for Peace College, the respect for my classmates and that hope for the future. Fortunately for my classmates, another young woman was chosen as speaker. I was disappointed, but she was a wiser writer and the best choice.

And somehow, here I am again. I repeat my line with the same hand-motion and incredulity in my voice and the crowd chuckles.

These are the moments to live for. I call them full-circle moments. I have come full-circle today in many ways. By definition, to come full-circle means to complete a cycle of transition, returning to the point of origin. The inference, of course, is that you are right back where you started, stuck in an endless cycle. But, I think full-circle is a gift from God. These are the moments that mark your growth and tell your story.

You, too, are bound to come full-circle. Your own life will be marked with full-circle events and conversations, dates, places and people. I challenge you to look for them along the way.  What do you look for and why?

First, you might find yourself right back where you started.

I give them examples from my own life. Looking back, the surface moments are easy to spot. Aside from this moment, my home is full-circle:  I live in the home that my parents built when I was in junior high and I’m married to the boy next door. My work is full-circle: the stories I once imagined about my neighbors are now whispers of short stories in my latest book.

When you find yourself right back where you started, you will realize how far you’ve come.

Looking back, I can see how far I’ve come. Of course, I cannot tell them all of that today. They don’t need to know all the events, conversations, dates, places and people -- between graduation and now – that have come back around for me. They don’t want to know the moments where my own hope and faith and expectations were derailed. And I don’t have the time to explain how I got back on track.

Second, you might find yourself stuck in the middle.

I explain that those moments of déjà vu often outnumber the others. How many times did I have the same fight with my mother? How many times did I make the same mistake at work? How many times did I struggle over the same decisions? Blah Blah Blah

When you find yourself in the middle, you will realize how far you have to go. These moments mean you get a second chance. When you know, you grow. You’ll do a different thing, you’ll make the better choice.

When you pay attention to full-circle moments you will find yourself in the end. I know I sound like Oprah. Or even worse, you mother! But, when you find yourself back where you started, you will develop gratitude, stability and maturity. When you find yourself stuck in the middle you will discover wisdom. These will take you farther than English 101 and Business 202. As you leave with your dreams in your heart and goals in your head, look out for the full-circle moments. You know what they say: what goes around comes back around.

I turn from the podium to my seat on the stage and blush at the applause and a standing ovation. I sit. I stand again. The president thanks me with a handshake and a hug and the ceremony is soon over. Women trickle out in single file and circle the fountain in the heart of campus. There is a flood of white dresses, the sound of voices singing the alma mater and a river of tears is shed as everyone whispers goodbye to the girl standing next to her.

I leave the stage and spend the next hour and a half eating éclairs and petit fours and congratulating new graduates. Julia walks over with her mother, her father and his Canon in tow. I hug her mother and we reminisce about our own graduation. Julia is following in our footsteps and transferring to UNC, too. The smile on her mother’s face is contagious, as is the pride she must feel.

May we get a picture with you? Julia asks, quietly.

Absolutely! I say. It would be an honor.

We line up next to an oak tree and his father arranges and rearranges us several times before backing up to take the picture.

Everyone say ‘peace’, he says.

The flash pops on his camera.

They Say a Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. I must have two thousand snapshots of my life. They are the kind of photos that you would expect a girl to have. Many of them mark first days of school. Each year I would stand in front of my mother’s 1974 boxy, burgundy Volvo, grinning with one or two missing teeth and clutching my new Strawberry Shortcake lunch box.

Many of those pictures mark the in-between days of school. I have a box full of pictures of my stint on the Homecoming Court in high school and of my dates to the junior and senior prom. I have captured snippets of my stint on the Court -- fidgety and feeling out of place -- with the popular girls and their mothers who all wear the right clothes and say the right words. There is a black and white photo of a silly moment in the homecoming parade where I get to wave like a beauty queen for my mom and friends as I ride by in a convertible. There are Kodak moments where I pin the boutonniere on my junior and senior prom dates – both of whom were named Brent and taller than me by two feet. They look fidgety and out of place wearing the same color cummerbund as the taffeta of my dress.

And the movies we have? Priceless. We grew up on the cusp of the digital age and our home movies are now VHS tapes in my living room. I have a catalog of my arrival home from a mission trip, my first experience on a theater stage, my own march across the Peace College front lawn to accept my Associate of Arts degree, the video of my wedding day. 

But what do you do for those moments in your life where there are no cameras to mark a milestone?  I’m not talking about those moments when you wish aloud, If only I had a camera for this. Not those moments when you realize you’ve forgotten the full-color thirty-five millimeter film or the memory stick is full or that the battery power had failed. Not for the moments where you want to catch your nephew face-down in his first birthday cake. Or the moments that your husband might become a finalist on America’s Funniest Home Videos right after he says: Hey, Honey, watch this! 

I am talking about those moments when the flash of recognition of knowing becomes as bright as halogen or the faith within you fails. Those moments when a milestone slams down behind you so that you cannot turn back to the way it was and you know that you will forever be something new. There is rarely a Polaroid that captures growth.

I don’t think we have any pictures of me, or Daddy or Anna or Mama on the day she was diagnosed.  I have snapshot of memories of that day.  I remember how beautiful it was in Chapel Hill, even for January.  The air was crisp and clear, the sky was an unbelievable blue.  I remember the parts of the drive from my apartment near campus to Duke Hospital. There were patches of snow on the north facing hills. I remember the way the wind felt at crosswalk leaving the parking deck and heading into the main entrance. 

I remember walking into mom’s hospital room and leaning against the far wall while the nurse finished up her admitting vitals check and opened the window blinds.  I remember sliding down the wall and feeling my butt bumping against the tile floor when I heard the nurse say, “Mrs. Formy-Duval, your girls won’t have to worry, leukemia is not hereditary.”

I’ve never been fond of hospitals.  When I was fifteen, the youth group leader at my church and his wife became the proud parents of a sweet baby girl.  Of course, all twelve girls from the high school youth group at Myrtle Grove Presbyterian Church went to visit mere hours after Karen had given birth. As everyone oohed and ahhed over the new addition, I excused myself to throw up in a bathroom down the hall.  I don’t know what it was: the smell of cleaning chemicals, the thought of pain, the idea of blood. 

Moments later I crawled into the empty bed next to the new mother.  My own mom, who had ferried three or four of us to the hospital, brought me a 7-Up and placed cool towels on my neck. 

“Beth what are we gonna say if the minister comes in and sees you laying there?” she joked. “He’s gonna think you’re knocked up!”  All the girls in the room giggled, and I’m sure I turned crimson, but I was thankful for Mama’s distraction.

Mama didn’t have a humorous quip for the nurse’s remark, or for the expression on my face as I melted against the wall and into a puddle on the floor.  I only heard muffled voices anyway and felt my tongue go numb.  Daddy and Anna helped me from the floor and moved me over to the bed.  I sat at her feet for a minute before asking Mama if I could lay down beside her. 

“I’m sorry,”  Daddy was saying to me.

Mama interrupted, “we wanted to tell you ourselves.  I’m sorry.  The doctors think I may have leukemia.”

Mama’s nonchalance didn’t ease the heavy feeling in my head or the twisting in my stomach.  Her voice denied whatever fear she may have been feeling at the time.  It was as if this happened everyday to her, to us. I rested my head on her shoulder and took deep breaths.

The silence was broken by a knock on the door and Grandaddy’s whistling. Nanny smiled her worried smile.  She only had two smiles, her worried smile and her genuine smile. As I lay beside Mama, I groaned:  half at the migraine that pounded in the back of my head and half at the smile.  Perhaps I knew even then that my grandmother’s genuine smile would become as rare as the healthy blood cells in my mother’s veins.

“Which one of you is sick,” my grandfather asked.  “You both look horrible.”  I rolled my eyes and tried to smile. Half of my face was numb and my vision was beginning to blur.  I could see him take off his hat and rub his hand over his bald scalp.  He looked out of place in a hospital.  Everyone called him Jelly, and I think there were only a few places that he felt comfortable:  His green recliner on the front porch, a deer stand in the green swamp and the kitchen table.  He complained about every where else, whether he was comfortable or not.

“What’s wrong with you?”  Nanny asked me. “Is it the hospital?” She was wearing a red sweater and a blue skirt.  Her face blurred as she got closer and I was glad I could no longer see her worried smile. 

“I think I have a migraine.”

“You do?” Mama asked. 

The room suddenly melted into a fuzzy fury that I barely remember. Blurred vision is an amazing gift I learned that first day and carried with me through much of mom’s treatment.

They Say You Can Run but You Cannot Hide - Part One

They say you can run, but you can’t hide.

I literally started running in the fourth grade. I had a hard year. My teacher that year was Mrs. Jones. She was older than any of the other fourth-grade teachers and it showed. She was shorter than some of the boys in our class and her skin was as wrinkly as her personality. She had red hair piled up in a beehive – but it was wiry and see-through like brunette Easter basket grass.  There were days that you could see the green chalkboard through the spaces in her curls. She had a reputation for being hard on the girls; pointing out flaws in their behavior and abilities in front of the class. She would mock our accents or question our science knowledge by having one of the boys confirm our answer. Her favorite punishment for anything she deemed unacceptable was to have us write out ANTIDISESTABLISMENTARIANISM one hundred times on the chalkboard at the back of the class.

We paid her back, though, and probably gave reason for her furrowed personality. In the cafeteria, the teachers sat together at a long table across the multi-purpose room. It had been a fourth grade rite of passage to carefully balance a single pea in a spork and flip it across the room into Mrs. Jones hair. The rest of the afternoon was spent trying to spot the green sphere on the top of her head or pointing it out at the end of the day to try to embarrass her.

On the night of the first parent-teacher conference, Mrs. Jones hosted punch and cookies in the classroom after the principal's welcome in the multi-purpose room. The students sat in their assigned seats and the parents circled around us with their backs against the outer edge of the wall. Questions were asked and answered about the upcoming year. Just before we were dismissed from the group, my mom raised her hand.

“Is there a science fair this year?” she asked Mrs. Jones. “I really want to be prepared this year.” She wrinkled her nose to show her distaste for what always turned out to be a parental assignment in torture.  There were groans from the parents around her and a general consensus of I’m with you in the room. Only Nelson Kaufmann and his family of orthodontists liked the science fair.

“No, but there’s a spelling bee in December and a math competition in January. Of course, you won’t have to worry about that, though. Beth is a good student, but she’s not great in math.”

I looked at my hands and placed them inside the hollow space under the desktop. I picked at the skin around the nail of my left thumb and avoided the stares of Nelson Kaufmann whose desk abutted and faced mine. The embarrassment crept up from my toes and I wondered if my hair could turn the same color of Mrs. Jones in that instant. 

The next day after school, I took out my anger and embarrassment on Anna. Usually, even though she was two years younger than me, she could take me in any fight we'd ever had. She was stronger and had more desire to win - to get the last lick. But on that day, my reaction to a senseless argument overwhelmed us both. I don't remember the exact infraction but it may have had to do with who got the last scoop of ice cream out of the freezer.  I pushed her through the swinging door that connected our kitchen and the dining room. She fell backwards onto the gold shag carpet and I kicked her in the side. I lifted my foot to kick again as she gulped for a breath of air and stopped mid-move. 

Mama! I cried. I ran to the back of the house to tell on myself. Mama! I kicked Anna and she can't breathe! Come NOW!

A week later, I found myself outside on the street in a new pair of shoes - running with Daddy. He had been a runner for years and for the first time, I was invited to join him after his post-work run. We ran - slowly I'm sure - around our block twice. Nearly a mile. I found out later that a therapist friend had suggested that running would help with the anger and allow me time to connect with Dad.

I began running figuratively when Mama was diagnosed with Leukemia.

You Can't Judge a Book by Its Cover

It’s true what they say: you can’t judge a book by its cover. There were days that you would not know Mama had leukemia at all. The day she dressed like a Harley chick at a tacky tourist party or strutted on a makeshift fashion cat-walk for a fundraiser in her honor were days you wondered if she had too many screws loose instead of too many white blood cells. But, I lived for those days. I wanted those days to be the norm.


My favorite part of her illness were the days when she was the silliest. Mama was always a performer, but it seemed that she turned it up a notch when she was diagnosed. Maybe it was the chemo. Shortly after I arrived back in Wilmington after graduation from Carolina, her friends started having these hilarious parties: the tacky tourist gig, the tacky Azalea Festival Garden party a country and western party. Everyone came in costume and armed with an act. Mama channeled Tammy Wynnette and Madonna - fortunately, not at the same time. Maybe it was the chemo.  


My favorite party was a springtime tacky tourist event. Our family, including Shelley, came as a family just in from biker week in Myrtle Beach. We all dressed in black and leather. We all had alternate egos. Mama was Spike, mainly because her cropped hair stuck straight up thanks to some gooey product that I doubt ever graced the hair of a real biker. I channeled my hippie ego as Ramblin' Rose, a hard-core, steal your face biker chick.

I have one family portrait from that party. We are all striking a pose, flexing our muscles or growling. There is a playfulness in our toughness. Maybe we were practicing for the year to come.