Denise Duhamel
POEM IN WHICH I GET A MAKEOVER
In 1999 I have very long hair and my friend
who works for Condé Nast asks
if I’d be willing to cut it all off.
The idea of a professional photo shoot
intrigues me and I talk the beauty editor
into inviting my family—my mother,
sister, and nieces—for the Mother’s Day
issue. They take the train into New York
where a hairdresser unfurls my mother’s
gray bun and gives her a blonde bob
for “ageless elegance.” Another darkens
my sister’s light hair (we were towheads
as kids) with lowlights and soon she has
a Meg Ryan “hip chop.” My nieces
are young—seventeen and fourteen—
but my sister consents they can dye
their hair too. Kerri gets her curls
straightened and glossed until she is
“sleek and sweet.” Katie becomes
a redhead with “mane tamer” bangs.
After we get our nails done,
we eat little catered sandwiches,
wear clothes from Bloomingdales,
and are slathered in so much Bobbie Brown
makeup, we ruin five face cloths
when we get back to my apartment
in Queens. In a few months we’ll be
in the May issue of McCall’s
which will go out of business
in just three more years. Christie Brinkley
is on the cover with her baby Sailor
and “hubby #4” whom she’ll divorce
in 2008. Though we’re not mentioned
by name, pink letters shout “MAKEOVERS
FOR YOU & YOUR DAUGHTER” inside.
The boys at Kerri and Kate’s school
are convinced they are models.
My hair fills four dustpans! I get
highlights and go from “frizzy
to fabulous,” that is, until my family
and I step out of the studio and into
the rain. Even with my short hair,
I look pretty much the same.