Aunt Elsa tossed the copy of Vogue onto the coffee table shaking her head dismissively.
“It just isn’t right,” she observed.
“Excuse me, what’s not right?” I asked.
“These highfalutin magazines, with the sickly skinny models tell’n us how we should look. That one on the cover there, eyelashes up to her eyebrows and a mascara line almost to her ears. It ain’t natural, and God help ’em if they get caught in a rainstorm, or did any real work and got sweaty, their man wou’n’t even recognise them,” Elsa ranted.
“That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?” I challenged.
“You think?” she continued. “Take them there Kardashians, and the like. It’s all false like those magazine eyelashes. And they think they have all the answers on how to be a woman. It ain’t the make-up or the “love” advice. You are born to it or you ain’t. Take me, ain’t I a woman? And nobody ever had to tell me how to do it.”
With that she stood and and adjusted the shoulder strap on her overalls and slid on her rubber boots. “Better be gett’n back to the afternoon milking,” she said. “But thank you for the coffee.”