Cosmetics – Are We There Yet?

I subscribe to a blog on which the writer has posted her picture every morning for 30days, fresh from the rack, sans make-up, and without the benefit of a hairbrush. Yesterday, on day 29, she challenged all of her readers/voyeurs to contribute their photos to the final display. Several did, I among them.

In a summary of her experience, she mentioned the emotions evoked by receiving our pictures, and recognized the fact that some might not understand the importance.

But, I do.

Women, in particular, are taught, from a very early age, that their early morning faces are somehow lacking, and unattractive. The entire cosmetics industry is, in fact, dependent upon a mixture of this artificially ingrained, low self-esteem and natural human competitiveness.

I have written before of my earliest experimentations with face paint, and the clandestine, early morning visits to the girl’s restroom, where I vied alongside many other desperate pre-teens, for a place in front of the mirror. Since that time, I have worn make-up of various brands, in various colors, and in varying amounts.

For years, I went without foundation, painting only my eyes and lips. Later, I slathered on the stuff, opting for an oil-free formula that claimed to control break-outs, while covering zits. Sadly, at the time, the contradiction evaded me. Now, I find myself on the opposite end of the spectrum, as I choose a foundation with multiple moisturizers to control fine lines, while promising to cover wrinkles; and I am completely aware of the dichotomy. I pay more for it now than I did then, but that’s ok, “because I’m worth it”.

My lids have been blue, green, brown, and pink, and always lined. Just as I mastered the art of creating a single perfect line with a tiny paint-filled brush, pencil liners became all the rage. As I drew a single, artfully-smudged line behind my daughter’s lashes on prom night, her friend’s mother exclaimed, “Oh, you do that so well!”. And yet, every morning I still struggle to recreate the effect on my own, somewhat puffy, eyelids.

I am blessed with very long, very thick eyelashes. I say blessed, but, in truth, this too is a curse, because layers of sticky, black mascara tend to clump in thick eyelashes, resulting in the dreaded “spider eyes”. So, again, I pay more, but…..you know the drill.

There was a time, in my early 20’s, during which the only way you could see the “real” me involved a really good flashlight and a possible conviction for breaking and entering. By the time I reached my 30’s, I became more concerned about the quality of my skin, and, thus began to give my aging pores a break by going bare-faced on weekends, unless I had an “event”. I maintained this regime for many years…until Alice challenged me.

My first visit to her morning face evoked many of the same emotions I remember having as my parents and I walked the sideshow at a local fair. I remember thinking, “Oh, that’s interesting.”, and, “I wonder why she wants to do that?”

Before long, I was visiting everyday, and as I read the musings she posted alongside her picture, I began to feel the full weight of her exercise. In short, I became a fan. I found myself pulling for her. Mild interest had turned into rousing feelings of support, much like those I feel when watching my beloved Gators take the field. And, occasionally, I expressed those feelings in the form of a comment, in hopes that she would realize she was having an effect. After a week of starting every morning with her unfettered face, I found I no longer felt the need to paint. The image reflected back to me in my bathroom mirror was, suddenly, good enough. And, for one solid week, I truly “faced” the world.

I sat, in full make-up, as I read her challenge and responded, without hesitation. It was the least I could do….

Thinking back on it, the preparations I made are laughable. I washed, and carefully styled my hair, the night before. I rummaged through my lingerie drawer in search of something frilly, pretty, and flattering, and lay my selections at the bedside for easy access the next morning. I set my clock, while making a mental note that there could be no hitting the snooze button, come morning. I had a responsibility.

The comical noises emitted by my Fisher-Price alarm clock awoke me, as planned. And, as I rose, the chill of early autumn hit me, full force, and the frilly, pretty, flattering lingerie at my feet remained, at my feet. I stumbled, again, towards the bathroom mirror, ran one hand through hair that bore no resemblance to that I had lain upon my pillow, and grabbed the fattest, plushest, warmest robe I own. Cinching it close around me, I headed for the computer, and my camera.

Weeks ago, in hopes of receiving a photograph of a very different sort, a friend had reminded me that my camera had a timer. As I set it, and waited for the flash, I offered up silent gratitude for the tip, and my decision not to use it for his suggested purpose.

The result is an image of me that, before today, few have seen. And, it was remarkably easy, and marvelously freeing, and amazingly uneventful. It is me; just me.

And, it was the least I could do…

Fourth grade boys chase girls.

Hence, I spent most of the 4th grade running in large circles around the playground with a group of five or six girls who had innocently, yet proudly, dubbed themselves “The Cool Kids”.

Boys, being male, even in the 4th grade, found themselves strangely attracted to this group of girls with nothing to recommend them besides the braces their parents’ income had lovingly screwed onto their teeth, and a cool club name.

By the 5th grade, the boys had ceased their chasing, and had, instead, begun to study these strange creatures in an effort to understand what it was they had been chasing, in the first place. This reticence on the part of “older” boys is, in my opinion, what forces girls to resort to plan B. In my case, this involved make-up.

A couple of years ago, as I sat in the lobby of a big box restaurant, waiting for my sisters to join me for our monthly “sister’s day”, I was shocked, and admittedly fascinated, by the sight of a child no older than six parading back and forth in front of me, in full, glittering make-up, skin-tight blue jeans, and high heels. She held a fancy cellphone between her delicate, manicured fingers as she chatted with a friend while waiting for a table by pacing the clay tiles under our feet.

This was not my reality. In my time, a simpler time, mothers didn’t allow their girls to paint their prepubescent faces. But girls, being girls, are always able to find a way around an obstacle as simple as parental restrictions. My friend, Melody, and I scratched and saved to buy apple-green or sky-blue eyeshadow, and tubes of sticky, roll-on, fruit-flavored, lip-gloss that we then hid away inside our newly acquired and ever-present purses.

We left home pure, and freshly-scrubbed, and before the first bell sounded, we had completed yet another masterpiece. We raced towards homeroom, batting green and blue eyelids at one another, secure in the knowledge that we were cunning, and smart, and worldly, and beautiful!

I’ve since lost track of Melody. But, I know that wherever she is, she is painted. I know this, because I am.

Or, I was.

“Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day…”

As I finished dressing, I swallowed the handful of herbs and vitamins that constitute breakfast and reached below the vanity for my paintbox. Half bent, in full swing, I caught my image in the large mirror over the sink. I rose, slowly, and looked; really looked. And, I made a decision.

I closed the cabinet beneath the sink with a decided thud, turned out my bedside lamp, and left the bedroom, unpainted.

Today is the fourth day in a row that I have taken on the world clean-faced. Today is also the first day I began to wonder, “Why?”.

My wardrobe remains unchanged. It occurs to me that my middle-aged, unpainted face and wild, unkempt hair, may appear incongruous above my Vera Wang blouse, pencil skirt, and stiletto heels.

So, why?

As I walked into the office this morning, I had regained my spring…and my smile, sans lipstick. As I talked with clients, my leg still swung irreverently beneath the desk in time to our banter, and I worked it, sans mascara. All day, without the mask, I’ve felt strangely attractive and wild; more so than in a very long time….

Many different answers have pinged against the sides of my head since the question was asked:

I work in an office replete with people I have known for most of my life, most of whom come to work every day wearing the face God gave them. Why bother?

I subscribe to a blog, in which the writer presents herself fresh from sleep every morning. I am inspired by these images; their raw honesty, their bravery, and their beauty.

I am raw. I am fresh. I am coming clean. I am starting over.

I am happy.

Tag: Cosmetics

Rising to the Challenge

Unmade…