I went to her house the next morning. Her house was quiet, a little dusty, filled with photographs and a sweet, lingering pain. I didn't push it. I washed and blow-dried her hair, warmed her skin with cream, and redid her eyelashes.
She looked in the mirror and whispered, "I forgot what I looked like."
We cried. Then we laughed at the absurdity of crying over mascara.
That was the beginning. I launched a Global Monthly Giving Day: free services for the elderly, single parents, anyone whose budget left something to be desired, but whose spirit dictated it. I said nothing. Word spread.
A 78-year-old man asked me to trim his beard for his first date in ten years.
A mother of three finally got her hair cut.
A teenager in foster care got prom eyelashes she could wave for the world to see.
Each of them left something behind: gratitude, trust, a reminder to look people in the eye and truly see them.
A year after Mirela's appointment, a thick envelope arrived. No return address. Her handwriting spilled across the page.
I was diagnosed with cancer two years ago. On my son's wedding day, I didn't know if I would live long enough to see him get married. You didn't just make me beautiful, you made me feel alive. I've carried that feeling into every treatment I have. Last week, my doctor said the word "remission." My family says it's because of the strength of my genes. I think it's because that day, you reminded me that I mattered. You wouldn't take my twelve dollars, but you gave me something I couldn't have bought in a thousand lifetimes.
continued on the next page