A Quote by Victoria Beckham
I've always loved makeup. I'm very, very girly. I used to sit and watch my mum get ready. My mum is very glamorous, and I remember sitting on her bed and watching her apply her makeup, get dressed, and do her hair.
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My mum is a fashion inspiration to me. She always goes to great lengths to get ready in the morning, from her hair to her makeup to her nails, and matching her suit with her shoes.
My mom was an aesthetician and she went to beauty school back in the '60s. I just remember watching her do her makeup all the time. She always had her nails done, makeup on - her face was ready to go when she went out. I loved it.
My mum used to work for the Chanel store in Paris, so for me, I've always been very familiar with the brand because of her. I remember when I was very, very, little, our flat had Chanel shoe boxes, makeup, and some jackets.
I used to love sitting on the bathroom floor in my pajamas and watching my mother get ready for an event. She'd stand in front of her vanity and apply bright red and blue makeup - it was the '80s, you know.
I remember sitting at the end of my mum's bed being fascinated by her ritual of getting dressed. It was a very methodical and considered process. I suppose you could say she was my first real muse.
I used to watch my mom put her makeup on for the stage, and it was one of the most special moments. I would sit quietly on the dressing room floor and watch her put her face on. I think she looks most beautiful in the morning when she wakes up with no makeup on... it's my favorite look on women.
I sit on the couch watching her arrange her long red hair before my bedroom mirror. she pulls her hair up and piles it on top of her head- she lets her eyes look at my eyes- then she drops her hair and lets it fall down in front of her face. we go to bed and I hold her speechlessly from the back my arm around her neck I touch her wrists and hands feel up to her elbows no further.
My mum loved Joan Armatrading and used to play her records all the time and even took me to see her a couple of times when I was really quite young. I didn't really like her music back then because my mum was always playing it, but I've grown to appreciate it more.
I think I've always been fascinated by women, colors, and makeup and the whole art of vanity because I would always watch my grandma get ready for church. And I was five or six at the time, maybe even four. I've always just loved admiring my grandma get ready and seeing how a touch of makeup made her so much more confident.
As a child, I would watch my mom get ready for work and just sit there for hours watching her transform. However, it wasn't until much later on that I really started to dabble in makeup myself.
I sometimes used to ask myself, what on earth did I love her for? Maybe fore the warm hazel iris of her fluffy eyes, or for the natural side-wave of her brown hair, done anyhow, or again for that movement of her plump shoulders. But, probably the truth was that I loved her because she loved me. To her I was the ideal man: brains, pluck. And there was none dressed better. I remember once, when I first put on that new dinner jacket, with the vast trousers, she clapsed her hands, sank down on a chair and murmured: 'Oh, Hermann...." It was ravishment bordering upon something like heavenly woe.
Even when my mum used to edit the paper she would come home, put us to bed and then go back to the office. She must have been exhausted. She worked on Sunday papers so I always had her on Mondays. I loved Mondays! She would always be waiting for me outside school. I remember feeling very loved.
I grew up in London, one of four children. We were a very loud family, not a lot of listening, plenty of talking. My mum was a hearth mother: she loved to gather us all around her - Sunday lunches were a big thing. She was very good at thinking on her feet - people used to say she should go into politics.
Dad was a draughtsman; he's now retired. Mum was a nurse who spent a lot of her time in ER and oncology. She's such a compassionate, generous person. If I was meeting her on the worst day of my life, I'd be very grateful to have met her.
I told you I try not to live in the past and nothing could change the fact that my mum was gone. But I’m a liar. The truth was, I’d had one dream ever since I was six: to see my mum again. To actually get to know her, talk to her, go shopping, do anything. Just be with her once so I could have a better memory to hold on to.
I missed the sound of her shuffling her homework while I listened to music on her bed. I missed the cold of her feet against my legs when she climbed into bed. I missed the shape of her shadow where it fell across the page of my book. I missed the smell of her hair and the sound of her breath and my Rilke on her nightstand and her wet towel thrown over the back of her desk chair. It felt like I should be sated after having a whole day with her, but it just made me miss her more.
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