Chapter Four
Efia
I walk onto the set with my traveling kit rolling behind me. I love when I get a chance to give back with my work. Today I’m volunteering my services to a foundation that deals with breast cancer. They gather survivors and arrange a day of glamor and photos to celebrate their triumph over the disease, and help them rediscover their beauty. Today, the shoot has even more meaning for me. I can understand better a small fraction of what they’re going through.
“Hey, Efia, thank you for coming out again to do this.” Jane, the organizer, gives me a hug. The slender brunette can’t be more than forty-five. A cancer survivor herself, she started Pink Love as a way to encourage and renew those who fought the same battle.
“It’s my pleasure, Jane. I’ve gotten so much knowledge and inspiration from the beautiful women we encounter here.”
Jane squeezes my hand. “We couldn’t do it without volunteers like you.”
“Will Karen be doing the photos today?” I ask.
“She will be. She actually ran to pick up some coffee for all of us after she finished setting up.”
“Excellent. I’ll just go to my corner and get my things ready to go.” I quickly find my spot, set up with a mirror, lights, and a table for me to set out all my makeup. I’d been given photos ahead of time to plan out my palettes. Karen has spoken with me about styling as well. It’s a full-fledged pampering session. Once my things are set up, I walk over to the table and help Jane set out the muffins, orange juice, and waters.
“I brought the java juice,” Karen says, coming in with two cartons from the donut shop. “Hey, Efia.”
“Hey, Karen, it’s good to see you again.”
We chit chat as we prepare a spread for the ladies. Soon they’re arriving and we greet them with applause, introductions, and attention. I’m on my fifth person of the day and as usual, I can hardly believe how fast time flies. Martina Rollings is a kick ass thirty-eight-year-old fighter. Dressed in a pair of black skinny jeans, and a pink tank top that shows off her amazing chest piece of butterflies, I can feel her vibrant energy. The crown of flowers she’s had permanently inked on her bald head is a beautiful piece of art I can’t help but admire.
“So you’re the woman who’s going to make me pretty.”
I laugh. “No, I’m just going to enhance what’s already there.”
“Well, do your best work. I’m a blank canvas,” she says.
I grin. Her heart-shaped face is littered with freckles that stand out against her peaches and cream skin. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows are a pale red, and her cupid’s bow lips are curved into a wide grin.
“I love your tattoos,” I say.
r /> “Thank you. After chemo, my hair never came back fully, and I thought to myself, why not take the plunge? I’ve always wanted a head tattoo anyway.”
“It suits you.”
“Thanks. These are the flowers my grandmother grew in her garden, so it’s very personal. She was one of the people who really kept me going when this all happened.”
“How many years have you been in remission?”
“Five. But it never gets easier. Each checkup you’re worried that it’ll be found. I went in for a routine mammogram, and they discovered I had stage two breast cancer. I was rushed to surgery two weeks later for a double mastectomy and began chemo. In the span of two months, I lost my breasts and my hair. In the beginning my only thought was survival. I was only thirty-one. I had my whole life ahead of me and two children to raise with my husband.”
“I can’t even imagine that. I’m sorry you had to go through it.” I finish her base with a light powder and move on to concealer. I blend it in as she continues her story. I’m amazed by her openness. Many of the people who come here want to share, but she’s going deep into her own perspective.
“Thank you. Afterward, I felt ravaged. I was weak and unrecognizable. It’s hard looking in the mirror and seeing a stranger. I had to struggle to come to terms with the new me, but in time, I did.”
As I apply her eye shadow and blush, I can’t help but think she’s talking to me.
“Breasts and hair are deemed incredibly important to femininity in nearly every culture known to man. You take away those two things, and you feel like you’ve lost your gender. Suddenly you’re this blank pallet you aren’t sure how to design.”
I understand her words all too well.
“It’s something you never realize, but it’s so true. Our culture is so focused on boobs and hair,” she says.
“Can I get you to open your eyes and look up? I’m going to apply some eyeliner and mascara. Then all you need is lips, and you’ll be done.” I say.
She glances up, and I carefully line her top and bottom lip with a brown lip pencil. “Perfect.” I apply mascara quickly and grab a light nude with a pop of shimmer. “And you’re done. Take a look at yourself in the mirror, doll.” I step back, and she takes a shaky breath.