THE GILDING OF THE LILY.

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXV, Issue 18203, 2 March 1929, Page 14

THE GILDING OF THE LILY.

AND THE PAINTING OF THE HOSE. itjy Katherine Carr.) Facial adornment is a practice as old as the human race. Paint, dye and tattoo, ear-rings and nose-rings have enhanced the charmer of both man and woman in many climes through many centuries. The lovely Cleopatra herself is reputed to have used a mud-pack to preserve her flawless complexion and undoubtedly knew all the secrets of the subtle use of sweet oils and unguents, perfumes and salves in the perfecting of that beauty reflected in her mirror of burnished bronze —and in the eyes of her Anthony. The modern woman who knows most of the tricks that Cleo. knew, and a few more, will frankly admit that she would go rather without her breakfast than without a little powder for her nose. Victorianism frowned disapproval on such frivolities as the use of powder and cosmetics as aids to beauty and until the war turned the world topsyturvy no really “nice” girl made so bold as to appear in the broad light of day with a noticeably powdered face. If she used powder at all, she used it very discreetly, felt rather naughty about it, and kept it mostly to flaunt on her young, white shoulders and her dainty nose when she donned her evening frock and gloved her arms to dance at a ball.

I remember, some years ago, the rhapsodies of an Australian lady whom l introduced to one of my friends —a deliciously pink and white girl from the far south of New Zealand, where girls are famed for the beauty of their skins. Tho visitor was enthralled and amazed to see a girl so delightfully pretty without a speck of powder or rouge! “And that,” she told me, “is the difference bet\yeen your pretty girl and ours. Yours comes from her morning bath, pink and lovely, and confident in the beauty nature has given her. Our ‘pretty’ girl is pretty after she has been to the looking glass and ‘touched-up’ her complexion for the day. It is the hot climate, you know; we all ‘make-up’ more or less!”

But that was in the early days of the war before we, of the younger generation, had completely cast aside the last Victorian prejudices. Now, from fifteen to fifty and younger and older we all carry our vanity bags and our “war-pain£.” And why? Because the shiny nose has gone out of fashion. It went with the sevengored skirt, the bustle, the mightilyboned corset, the chignon and the’ cartwheel hat. A face shining with soap and water used to Tte the outward sign of a virtuous soul within. Now, since we have all grown flighty, a shiny nose is no longer a symbol of anything but indigestion; it is a reproach, a calamity!

There is, however, another side to the debated question, “to paint or not to paint.” There are among the female acquaintances of most of us a few excessively sympathetic friends whose favourite greeting is, “My dear, what have you been doing with yourself? You’ve quite pale—lost all the roses from cheeks. Perhaps

****** * * *****»>************* you’re a bit tired? Or not well?” “Tired?” you echo, and laugh. “I’m never tired, and I never felt better!” and as you make your escape you say to yourself, “I couldn’t have put enough on this morning!” So soon as you have the opportunity of confronting a mirror you repair the deficiency and go bravely forth; and the next friend you meet exclaims happily, “Dear, you do look well!” And sends you on your way cheered and comforted. To look one’s best is to feel one’s best, so if vanity alone is not sufficient to make us keep our noses nicely powdered and the roses blooming perenially, though ever so discreetly, in our cheeks, we must do it in self-defence!