...or maybe a few years later, an Avon Lady came knocking on our front door.
A kindly neighbour had taken it upon herself to inform this purveyor of paints and perfumes that there were a couple of teenaged girls living in our house.
I wasn't quite teenaged yet, being only twelve, but still old enough to be interested in paints and perfumes, according to the Avon Lady.
It was a Sunday, so Dad was home and let her in.
She laid out her kit on the kitchen table and convinced us to let her paint our nails.
Our short, broken, not-so-pretty nails.
My sister agreed to having her face painted, but I refused. I didn't like the feel of powders and lipsticks then, and I still don't now.
Eyeshadow was completely out of the question as far as I was concerned, but my sister, J, seemed to enjoy having her eyelids coloured in and her lashes touched with black.
My Dad was pleased that someone had brought "womanly" things into the house and ordered a few things for each of us.
Perhaps he thought I would now stop climbing trees and spending so much time at the beach?
Rouge and facepowder were chosen in shades to suit our separate complexions and lipstick in a watermelon shade for me, rose pink for J.
What he called "harlot red" was not allowed.
One bottle of nail polish each. No perfume.
When the products were delivered, I gave the facepaint to my sister, keeping only the nail polish for myself.
The colour was "Dawn Pink", and I was in love with it. A shimmery golden pink that perfectly suited my tanned skin, even on broken, short nails.
I've never seen it since, although many shades from many brands has come close.
These days, I still have the short, broken nails, but I rarely use colour on them.
A half bottle of clear shine is all I own right now.
Their Heart Wasn’t In It
2 hours ago