(These are examples of the make-up I’d love to wear. If I wore make-up.)
So. I’m gonna write about make-up. Cosmetics. I’m avoiding the topic that shall not be written about anymore. Oy. And this is a thing I think about. Make-up. Not the other thing. The man. I do not think about him.
Oh, but I do.
But I’m not writing about him. I’m writing about fucking cosmetics.
So, make-up has always felt kind of weird to me. In junior high, that harrowing time of every girls life, I was expected to start wearing make-up. All the girls were doing it. I never was one to do what “all the girls” were doing. I thought many of the girls were stupid cunts. And many of the girls make-up was NOT good.
But I tried. And its supposed to make you feel confident, right? Uh, well, not so much. For me wearing make-up makes me feel mostly like a clown. I feel extremely awkward, with crap on my face that feels weird and smells gross. Like a fucking clown. Not confident. Not pretty. Not sexy. Just uncomfortable. And creepy.
So, my make-up experimentation didn’t last long. Yet I usually have make-up. I’m drawn to buy it. Like a magpie collecting tin foil or whatever they fucking do. It’s like some primal urge. To have mascara. Even though it makes my eyelashes stab my eyes.
And really, what’s wrong with my face? I have a face already. Why do I need to paint one onto my face? My face already exists. And highlighted cheekbones look super weird, especially in the fucking daytime!
Make-up can be art. It’s certainly a cultural phenomenon that goes way, way back. It’s primal to decorate ourselves. Like birds with the mating dance. Make-up isn’t bad. But the pervasive belief that make-up is necessary for a woman to be presentable is evil. Pure misogyny. And pure fucking bullshit.
I want to wear some super cuckoo make-up. Like the ladies in “Harlots”. Or Bjork-esque rainbow forehead or sequined eyebrows. I’m not that brave. Yet. I might become one of those super awesome old ladies who wears cukoo make-up. Time will tell.
I have a woman who is always telling me I should wear make-up. “You need a little color!” And to color my hair to cover my grey. Because it looks old. As if the make-up and hair dye are fooling anyone. Hell. No.
I like to wear make-up on special occasion. It’s documented. I have fabulous photos of me on my 42nd birthday with super awesome make-up, bright doll cheek, bright pink lip, mascara, it’s gorgeous. Super exaggerated. Not on trend or in vogue at all. But I like it. I also erroneously decided to wear make-up for my drivers license photo, and the DMV lighting rendered me Jon Bennet Ramsey-esque. Yikes. You have to think about the lighting with make-up. Like those daytime highlighted made for drag but you’re an office lady on the street at 2pm cheekbones.
If make-up makes you feel good, good. If it helps you feel confident, ok. But if you feel you need it, that your own face is somehow so insufficient that it must be spackled into as different a face as possible, this I think, is a real problem. We wouldn’t feel this way if there wasn’t a huge, multi=billion dollar industry feeding us propaganda from birth about how we should look and what to buy to do so. Those disney princess bitches all have full make-up on at all times. Even while unconscious. For years.
When Alicia Keys or some hollywood lady goes without make-up the media goes nuts. Like it’s a big deal. Like it’s special. That’s utterely ridiculous. Insane. It shouldn’t be revolutionary to show your bare face.
No one needs to “Put on their Face”. We all have faces already.