When I was fourteen I used to put on makeup before leaving the house and had to find my way out of the house without facing my mother. This crazy ritual continued for the school year, I knew that my mother was anti makeup at fourteen, but I was convinced that my freckles had to go and what better to hide them, than a thick layer of make up. I can’t remember what changed my mind about make up, but it was a radical change about, over the course of that summer, between my freshman and sophomore year, I decided that I didn’t need make up. I decided that I was better off without makeup because I really didn’t know what I was doing when applying make up. I still don’t know what I am doing so I still don’t wear any, there are too many decisions to make; too many colors, textures, powder versus liquid, matte versus shiny, which complexion do I have, am I a spring, a winter, a summer or a fall? It is overwhelming, so why bother? I look in the mirror and I like the face that looks back at me and that is good enough for me.
I dread going to any business dinner; I love the food and the people I meet are always so very nice and we have a great many things to talk about; what I dread and dislike so very, very much is the getting ready process. I never know what to wear, my hair rarely cooperates, this weekend is a case in point; it is rainy today, tomorrow it is going to rain and so my hair is a frizzy mess and there is nothing that will tame my unruly locks, make up is something that I am amateurish at and by the time that I am ready, I feel awful about myself. And therein lies the kicker, sitting at home, reading about things that interest me, writing about things that I love; I feel hunky dory with myself, the minute that I have to put something nice on and put a presentable face to the world and down plummets my self-esteem, go figure. I think that deep down, I know that I am a tom boy, I have always been a tom boy and I never felt pretty or being pretty was not something that defined me; being a bookworm is something that defines me. So I think that when I have make up applied to me by professionals, I feel uncomfortable because I don’t see me looking back in the mirror and I know that the mask looking back at me is not sustainable and will be gone with a good scrubbing later on.
What I have tried to instill in my baby girl is that she is beautiful on the inside and the outside and she doesn’t need any embellishments whatsoever. She likes to wear makeup and now I don’t say anything, but I was pretty vocal during her high school years that she did not need any makeup, her beauty doesn’t need any additives.
I still don’t know I have such animosity to make up, maybe because it seems unfair that women are expected to wear it and men can go through their day without worrying about that or that men mature and women age. But when I think of makeup, I feel my stubborn streak rise to the forefront and the proverbial donkey hoofs dig in to not budge.