Beauty in a Jar
I don’t know about anyone else, but I hate taking my makeup off at night.
I used to be one of those people who scoffed at women who couldn’t leave the house without their face and hair completely done up. Now I can’t even go to the grocery store without at least some eyeliner on. I probably spend about twenty minutes a day putting on makeup. I use at the very least six or seven different products – be it foundation or eyeliner or blush or what have you. I literally give myself a new face.
Which brings me to my initial statement – I hate taking my makeup off at night. I hate it because I have to look at my face. The circles around my eyes, the ruddy coloring, the wrinkles, the pores, the dry skin – it all comes back as I clean off the day’s creation. The foundation that gave me my blank palette, the eye shadow that gave my eyes depth, the eyeliner that gave them shape, the mascara that lengthened my eyelashes, the brow shader that made my eyebrows even, the blush that gave me cheekbones, the lipstick and liner that created my lips; it all comes off. I wear a mask each and every day and I can’t leave the house without it.
Most of it is lack of self-esteem. I would describe my face as a train wreck. Some of it, though, some of it is the protection it provides. No one actually knows what I look like. If they don’t know what I look like, then they certainly can’t know me. Not really anyhow. It helps me keep everything skin deep. At this point in my life, the most intimate act I can think of is allowing someone to see me without my makeup on or my hair done.
Yet another facet of the disguise: my hair. Wash, dry, straighten, style. Drying and straightening alone takes a good thirty minutes. And then the products go in, followed by the bobby pins or barrettes or hair clips or whatever it is I decide to shove into my head on any given day. My nails are always painted, usually a French manicure so that my fingers look longer and my nails look healthier. And then come the clothes. Pencil skirts with wide waistbands to flatten my stomach, button-up shirts cut to give me shape, and four inch heels to make my legs look longer, leaner, and stronger.
All of these things create a persona. This person you think you know is not me. This isn’t my face or my hair or my nails or my body. Though sometimes I’m not sure which one is the real me. Am I the business woman with the French twist and sweater vest that everyone sees at church and school? Am I the rockabilly/punk rocker people see at concerts? Am I the flirt with the low cut shirt that I appear to be at bars and clubs? Or am I the nondescript girl with no makeup, pony tail, and the t-shirt and pajama pants that I perpetually wear at home?
Jesus, I sound like a feminist going through an existential crisis.
You are all of the above on any given day, Jayna. And just so you know – your face isn’t a train wreck by any means. You just look younger without makeup. I think you need a new mirror.