The last couple of afternoons our 5-year-old (excuse me 5 1/2-year-old) daughter has gathered her make-up kit and dug into mine to give me a fresh face and a new hairdo. Yesterday, she spent a considerable amount of time dabbing concealer on every obvious and not so obvious facial flaw that I have. (I’ll need to get a new tube.) She used every color of eyeshadow we have on my eyes, blackened my eyebrows, colored my cheeks lavender, lip-lined my lips well outside their lip lines and put sparkling stuff on the sides of my face as well as on my most gloriously prominent feature, my nose. She bobby-pined my bangs back and put a rather cock-eyed ponytail in the rest of my hair. Then, she stood back and pronounced me beautiful. And you know what? I felt beautiful. There is something quite magical in the soft touch of my child’s hands on my face, along with the intense, concentrated attention she gave just to me. I wish I could box that up. No, not to sell and make a million. Just to take out and wallow in for a bit when she’s 15.