The Blonde in the Mirror

Last Sunday a friend asked me to make a small appearance in his show. It was one of those gay free-for-alls — really a party more than a show, full of drag queens and petardeo.

I went to the dressing room to put on makeup and change into my costume.

The space was designed to comfortably hold about four people. Tonight there were about forty. Drag queens, fat women in tutus, thin women in stockings, a photographer taking pictures of them all, every surface of the place covered with clothes and shoes… Total chaos.

There was no air conditioning whatsoever. It was like being in a loud, sweaty, smoky oven. It was Hell with Glitter.

And they had run out of water.

I looked around for a place to change. There was nowhere to go except a dimly-lit corner where a petite blonde painstakingly applied her makeup in front of a mirror covered with stickers of every shitty band that ever existed.

I was already in a bad mood. “Can I join you at the mirror?” I asked her, but in a way that made it clear that I was going to use her mirror whether she said “yes” or “no”. I was not going to take shit off anyone. I’d already had an unpleasant run-in with a snotty drag queen about two meters away and I was no longer the civilized person I was before I walked into this hell-hole. 

“Of course,” she said. “It’s so awfully hot in here, my eye pencil is melting. Look!” She showed me the deformed pencil tip. “I have been painting my face for twenty minutes and I can’t see a thing I’m doing. Plus, once I paint it, the sweat washes it away in five minutes. It’s ridiculous!” she emphasized. “I mean, what am I doing here?”

I had been asking myself the same question. But suddenly I stopped feeling sorry for myself because, when I looked more closely at her face, I realized that, in spite of her trim, girlish body, she must have been in her fifties.  She was still quite beautiful, with delicate features. She looked like a weary princess.

I started to put my makeup on. My side of the mirror had the only working light bulb. She kept complaining. “This is terrible! I don’t know why I bother; Dios mío, I can’t see anything!”

I felt like I should offer to help her paint her face. But then another part of me thought, “Tough titty.” I was in a shitty mood and I just wanted to get the hell out of there as fast as I could. Then my conscience got the best of me.

“Hey,” I said, “Why don’t we switch sides? My side of the mirror has more light.” 

“No, no, no, don’t move at all! It’s all right. I’ll be fine!” she said.

“Are you sure?” I said.

“No, don’t worry, honey. I’ll be fine.” And then she went back to complaining about the light and heat, everything was melting, etc.

Finally I finished my makeup and struggled into my costume. “Please take my place,” I said. “The light is much better there.” 

“No no no no no no no no no I’ll be fine!” she insisted. Poor lady. I didn’t know who she was or how the hell she got mixed up with this bunch, but I felt bad for her. Maybe she was a little kooky, but she’d been quite classy in spite of such horrible circumstances. I was very curious as to what on earth she was going to do in the show. 

I never saw her act because I had a final attack of agoraphobia and didn’t stick around to find out. Now I wish I had been able to. 

She was Susana Estrada, and she sang a bolero.