It is incredible for me to think that my daughter Bobbi Brown has accomplished so much in so little time it boggles my mind, really, since it feels like so short a time since she was born.
You could say that we grew up together, since I was only twenty-one when Bobbi, my first daughter, was born. We lived in the village of Wilmette, a small suburb north of Chicago. It was in the late 1950s, a peaceful time, I think, to be a child. Looking back, I remember one early incident that, in hindsight, was probably more important than it seemed at the time. When Bobbi was five, she got into her mother’s makeup drawer and began applying the makeup to her face, the sink, and the bathroom walls. The lipsticks and rouge were ruined, and Bobbi spent the rest of the afternoon in her bedroom.
Bobbi seemed to pick up two lessons that day: Don’t mess with your mama’s stuff and playing with makeup is fun. To satisfy our daughter’s unabated fascination, we gave Bobbi her very own makeup lipsticks, brushes, rouges, creams, sponges, powders, and lotions all slightly used, but perfect for her purposes. Bobbi went at it with the heaviest of hands it was not a pretty sight.