By Andrea Goto
I grew up with a beautiful mother. She was tanned, manicured, moisturized and makeup’d. She wore red “powers suits” and Anne Klein earring and necklace sets. She spritzed Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door perfume each morning—and night. I loved seeing pictures of her in High School, when posed onstage in beauty pageants, with her perfectly coiffed hair and a waist so small I wondered where her ribs had gone.
She had collections of cosmetics, lotions, hair products—our bathroom cupboards were a micro version of Ulta. I was overwhelmed by the possibilities and the promises. She was the first on-board as soon as the ingredient du jour came out. Retinol, blue-green algae, tee tree oil, alpha-hydroxy, apricot scrubs, paraben-free’s, vitamin C’s … the list goes on.
It was clear to me from a young age that appearance mattered and that aging was to be fought with full force. There was, however, a brief moment in my late teens that I rejected these ideals. Women didn’t need to conform to ridiculous standards of beauty. Aging was to be celebrated and I would wear my wrinkles with pride. Of course, I didn’t have any wrinkles then, so it was kind of like saying I’d never let my toddler watch TV until I actually had a toddler and realized how ridiculous that was.
I know some people will disagree with the message my mom was sending, thinking it’s perpetuating impossible ideals and absurd expectations, but it’s too easy to be dismissive. Sure, I think having a beautiful mom could’ve gone really wrong for me if I’d compared myself unfavorably to her. If I resented her. If she compared herself to me or harbored resentment for my youth. But I see now that Mom’s approach was pretty much spot on: she was her and she let me be me.
When I insisted on Doc Marten’s with a maxi dress (and T-shirt, dear God!), she shook her head in amusement and said, “I guess that’s just want kids are wearing these days.” She didn’t criticize my black nail polish, my low-slung jeans, even at one point my 20 extra pounds (she said I was “very strong”).
As an adult, when I adopted athleisure with a passion few have, she wanted to get in on the game. When I told Mom I had fallen for Botox and fillers, she asked me for all the dirty details. I learned so much from her, then suddenly, she was wanting to learn from me. What products have I tried? How often do I color my hair? Is this new dress too “young looking?” (Never! Unless it involves a bare midriff.)
Appreciating what my mom gave me, I try to impart the same on my 13-year-old daughter. Right now, she’s strictly in an Under Armour, tall Nike socks and tennis shoes phase, complete with ponytail shellacked with hairspray. I gently suggest a bow, earrings, skirt—perhaps deodorant? But she gives me a firm look and I let her be her. And me be me.
In being me, I don’t keep much from my daughter. She knows I highlight my hair, run like it’s my job and Botox my wrinkles. And I see her slowly adopting the habits she’s comfortable with: Moroccan oil, moisturizers, straightening irons, stylish joggers and, finally, deodorant.
This Mother’s Day, I celebrate that my mother likes nice clothes and won’t be caught dead without makeup. I, too, like nice clothes, but I’m easily caught in public without makeup. But more than that, I celebrate that Mom never pushed her beauty—she only guided with it.
