"You can always tell a woman's age by her neck and her hands."
This is the first cautionary beauty tale I remember my mother sharing. I must have been a pre-teen. Oddly, her fearmongering mentioned nothing of wearing daily SPF or wide-brimmed hats -- of course not, this was 1990s Mississippi -- but was relegated solely to lotions, oils and cold creams. Such potions were meant to be applied often and in abundance; I must have been the only 15-year-old in America slathering herself in Neutrogena body oil after every shower.
The author and her mother on her wedding day.
As a Southern woman born in the late 1950s, as well as the granddaughter of Lebanese immigrants (who took their skin care regimens as seriously as their rolled grape leaves), my mother always equated beauty with access.
She was a brunette, olive-skinned woman coming of age in a world of Christie Brinkley beauties. Mahogany-haired bombshells like Sophia Loren, Isabella Rossellini and Mississippi's own Miss America, Mary Ann Mobley, became my mother's beauty idols. She believed Joe Cocker's "You Are So Beautiful" was the most romantic song in the world. She never left the house without wearing lipstick. The pursuit of beauty was my mother's Roman Empire. Ironically, though, it was rarely her priority.
The author's mother in college.
Anyone who knew her would agree that my mother was gorgeous. Naturally effervescent, with electric coffee-colored eyes, a wide white smile and, of course, skin as smooth as suede. But once she had children, and eventually a slew of grandchildren, my mother never spent money on herself. While she still took great effort in crafting her appearance, when it came to indulgences, she instead splurged on presents and plane tickets to visit my brother and I, who'd moved far away from Mississippi.
My mother's obsession with beauty rubbed off on me like chalk to jeans. My Lebanese aunts, with their coiffed hairstyles, gauzy kaftans and chiming gold bracelets had pushed their creams and oils on me as long as I could remember. Even as an awkward middle schooler, when I looked much more like Augustus Gloop than the Hollywood icons my mother adored, they fawned over my "natural beauty." Sharing their skin care routines was a way of showing love. It was my family's portal to power, confidence, and acceptance. Beauty was our holy trinity.
As we both grew older, my mother admired beauty techniques from afar and I became a freelance beauty writer. I went to work at Vogue, where there was a certain expectation about one's appearance. I became the beauty gift-giver, the one always "in the know." The most effective cleansing brushes, lymphatic drainage devices and neck-firming creams. Premium hair care, the best boar-bristle brushes and microfiber hair towels. Even today, I am my family's beauty czar, which is a role I have relished.
Then, at the start of 2024, my mother abruptly died of a cardiac arrhythmia at just 71. I was six weeks postpartum with my second child and struggling to wear a smile for my three-year-old. I threw myself into work, my writing and, of all things, a daily beauty regimen. I could not afford to disappear from my children, my means of income, my health and my responsibilities. So I chose an obsession I was rather familiar with.
Finding peace in (red) light
Beauty was not only my connection to the women in my life, it was also my tie to home. A direct line to my mother.
It would be accurate to assume I am obsessed with skin care. I try to be mindful of where my money goes. I don't go blindly into treatments and procedures. I'm a writer; research is second nature. But I am open minded. I love trying new beauty tech and experiencing all varieties of treatments. I am that girl in Sephora reading the ingredient list on the packaging of every potential purchase. I want receipts.
All this has led me to a love affair with LED red light therapy, which, if my mother were alive today, is something she'd be amazed by. She was always looking for this or that to help minimize wrinkles and firm up her skin. We used to visit the same medspa together when I'd go home to Mississippi. She was always asking if I thought a new beauty craze was worth the money.
This time I'd tell her: Yes. Of all the at-home treatments I have tried so far, my red light therapy masks have given the most bang for my buck. I wear them consistently -- no beauty routine works if not done diligently -- and over time have noticed that my skin is brighter, smoother and healthier. Plus, my 10 minutes behind the mask are a welcome moment of peace at the end of a long day.
(Note that results may vary when using red light therapy masks, especially depending on the device, how often it's used and a person's age and current skin condition. Additional studies are also needed to determine the long-term effects of these masks. If you're sensitive to light, you should avoid using a red light therapy mask. If you're unsure if this product is right for you, consult your dermatologist.)
These days I'm wearing Omnilux, which I like because their products are FDA cleared, provide an onsite clinical bibliography (the receipts!) and offer information on how their technology works. I'm using Contour Face and Contour Neck and Décolleté devices, which I use roughly three times a week (sometimes more, sometimes less). Every time I don this nightmarish mask -- a blend akin to Vincent Price's The Masque of Red Death and The Man in The Iron Mask -- I wonder what my mom would think. I imagine she'd have a good laugh. I think she'd be happy to have a new gadget in the name of beauty.
Let me be clear: I am in no way suggesting that red light therapy alleviates grief. (Though I'd absolutely opt in if it did.) Grief is not meant to be solved, only managed. In order to show up for my family, my career and myself, I also take prescribed medication to manage my anxiety; I've dabbled in EMDR therapy and hypnosis. I write about my mom. A lot.
It may sound strange, but taking part in the routines we would've enjoyed together brings her to me. For a moment, she is alive in my mind. And if I've learned anything in the last year, it's that tradition can soothe the void left by an unfillable absence. Sometimes taking steps towards simple joys, however silly they may appear, can keep grief at bay long enough to bask in a little light.