A Little Mascara

This morning, after my shower and two minutes before I walked out the door, I took a moment to brush some mascara onto my eyelashes. I do this every day. My eyelashes are a light brown (or dark blonde!) and usually when I skip the process people comment on how tired I look. A little make-up goes a long way, so I make the sacrifice.

I have a very complicated relationship with make-up. I've got all sorts of thoughts about it. Some of it good, some of it, umm, not. I don't know why I've made make-up into an "issue." My mother wears it. And her mother wore it. My sister wears it. It's not like it wasn't around the house or anyone told me I shouldn't wear it because bunnies have been blinded by liquid eyeliner. It could, of course, come from those Catholic school years when we weren't able to wear any make-up at all except for Chapstick, and even then plain Chapstick over Cherry Chapstick because Cherry Chapstick was red and might rouge your lips a bit. (You're wondering if that last bits true. I'll leave it up to you to decide. But let me just qualify that I had nuns in my school.) By the time I stumbled into high school, I wasn't too sure about the make-up thing. I tried it, of course, after eight years of being told I couldn't, but the novelty quickly waned. I had acne, you see, and make-up seemed to exacerbate the situation especially as I was trying to cover it up. It felt so obvious that that was what I was doing. It wasn't awful acne, but I was a girl and any pimple was one pimple too many, so, instead, I opted out of the make-up wars and let the other girls with smoother skin give it a go. I kept thinking, "later."

When the acne finally cleared up in my twenties, I had become a wash-and-go kind of girl. I would literally wake up 30 minutes before I had to be anywhere, shower for twenty, dress and, well, here's where the mascara came in because I had to put some make-up on by now, didn't I? Then dash out the door with my hair wet. I kept a full face of make-up for special occasions. The problem was, when special occasions arose, I never felt comfortable applying the barely used Cover Girl products I kept stashed in a drawer. I knew how to apply make-up; I read enough "girly magazines" to know the proper techniques and colors for my coloring. However, it always felt "too much." Or "caked on." I didn't want to look "like a clown" (my mother's words). So I usually put on very little with the hopes that it would look natural only to get to wherever I was going to see that my friends applied a lot more and looked very good for their efforts. I assured myself, however, that when I "needed" make-up (IE, when I was "old" and ergo "unattractive"), I would do better...then.

I have to admit that I was very lucky during this time. Whenever I mentioned that I didn't wear make-up, girls would give me a literal double take and then try to get in closer for a look at my pores. Whenever I posed for WD magazine (they were infamous for using their editorial staff as models), the design editor would compliment me by saying, "I barely had to photoshop you at all." Who needed make-up? Youth was its own reward! Unfortunately, youth fades, and I woke up one morning around the age of thirty and realized that I had a sunspot on my cheek. Reality started to seep in. But, I refused to give in. I didn't need make-up. "Not yet," I kept telling myself.

This morning, during my two minute check-the-face timeout, right before dashing out the door to work, I looked at my skin. I've got another sun spot, one that I've been monitoring for awhile now. I've got two raised moles instead of the one that seemed glamorous back when I was twenty-five. There's a blotchiness to my skin tone that I never had before. I've come to the conclusion that I'm old...er. Sigh. No one is asking to take my picture any more. And if they do, there will be photoshopping, I assure you. And while I'm not wearing make-up daily, I do use the concealer stick with a light powder and some rougue on the weekends. Just to give me the kind of skin I used to have naturally. As for the heavy make-up? I still don't like it. Recently, a friend of mine -- a professional make-up artist, mind you -- "dolled [me] up" before a night on the town. I felt awkward and unnatural. And then I felt bad because she wanted that reality make-over "Wow! I never knew I could look like this!" response, and I didn't give it to her. I just couldn't. I've been made-up before (weddings comes to mind, that one afternoon at Sephora when I got wrangled into a chair thinking I would get the reality show feeling). I just don't feel like myself. I feel like, well, like I'm putting on a mask. Or, worse, warrior paint going into battle. And maybe that is the real issue of make-up for me. I've never wanted to be perceived as a fake or a fraud or a phony. I'm very big on exposing myself, warts and all, to every person who bumps into me. "This is me. Deal with it." I realize this is slightly confrontational (the word "femi-nazi" comes to mind), but the jokes about women not being confident enough to be seen without their make-up make me cringe. (Mary Kay, who never let her husband or children see her without make-up, makes me sad. Did she not like herself as God made her that she felt she had to cover up her own natural beauty? Or was that just a really committed way to selling the product? I never understood.) I mean, the beauty business is not a billion dollar industry because they make women feel good about themselves. Advertising firms are paid very good money to make women feel less-than so that they go out and buy the product to feel good-enough. That is, until the next new thing hits the market. "You thought Lash Blast was good? Wait until you see vibrating mascara! It will change your world!" To which I say, "Really? Puh-leeze."

I may never reach an age where I feel I "need" make-up. Though, I do think I'm getting closer to the age where I might start to apply at least some concealer and a light powder on a daily basis just to tame the blotchiness a bit (maybe. I mean forty is coming). At the same time, however, I'm still not to a place where I enjoy putting on a face full of make-up to make the most of my looks. My eyes could look a little bigger, a little bluer. My lips probably could stand to be a bit plumper. But it all feels one step closer to Plasticsville. I just can't seem to wrap my head around it quite yet. And maybe I don't have to. Not because I'm above such things, but because I'm coming to a place where I can accept that some women enjoy playing with make-up, and some don't. It doesn't make one less -- or more -- of a woman one way or the other. It's not a political statement. Or a statement about one's self image. Make-up is supposed to be about feeling good about yourself. So however much you use shouldn't be up to the beauty industry's standard of beauty but about how beautiful you feel when you use their product. For me, a little mascara seems to do the trick pretty well.