My father was always very vocal
about his disapproval of makeup. If he
caught you putting some on he would casually ask if that much “war paint” was
necessary for going to school. I would
give him a world class eye roll. If you
don’t have a teenage daughter, you might not ever have experienced this. Here is gif to demonstrate.
In my mind I always imagined a horde of done up women, armed to the
teeth with cosmetics going out to conquer the world of men. Now I see that this isn’t far from the truth,
sadly the standards of beauty, especially for women are set so impossibly high
that we all fall short of the mark. But
if you don’t at least try to look that way, most people dismiss you as
uninteresting and unimportant. As if
high heels (another of my father’s peeves, medieval torture devices, he dubbed
them) and red lips have anything to do intellect and ability. (Putting my soapbox away)
As a result, I never used cosmetics,
although I desperately wanted to. My
mother only wore makeup to church and sometimes when she and dad went out to
dinner. He insists he prefers her sans
embellishment. Maybe he does. But I grew up believing most men thought only
silly girls wore makeup. That men in
general preferred a more natural look. Aside
from Nick Offerman, my father and a few other select males, I don’t feel like
this is typical.
When I was sixteen I was invited to
a Mary Kay makeover party. I was
thrilled. Finally someone to teach me
this sacred skill! And they would do it
for free!! The plump, cheerful makeup
artist paid particular attention to me, when she was done she leaned back and
surveyed her handiwork.
“Oh, Weed,”
she said, “you would be so beautiful if only you would wear makeup.” This backhanded compliment was a sore spot
for me for years. I bit back a “you
would be so skinny if only you would diet” retort that my sassy sixteen year
old brain came up with on the spot. And
mentally complimented myself for my maturity and restraint. I didn’t realize she was trying to sell me
anything until I was handed an order form and brochure. My heart sank. $14 for mascara. Clearly this was not going to be a repeat of
my bubblegum experience. I speechlessly
considered the prices and quantity of necessary makeup to make me beautiful,
which she had dutifully circled for me.
Then decided my father was right and I didn’t need it. I went home and tearfully scrubbed the
cosmetic masterpiece from my face.
By some
miracle I never had a problem with acne.
My sisters weren’t so lucky.
Teenage acne hit them with a vengeance. I like to think this was their punishment for
being better than me in every other department.
My mother was no help, since she didn’t wear cover up or foundation
ever. So Gummy, Nana and Beadle were
left to flounder unaided through the painful process of learning to apply
makeup. Often coming out too pale or too
shiny. I could share some pictures, but
one of them would undoubtedly punch me in the ovaries for it. My father insisted the best treatments were
natural ones. Like honey or baking soda
paste. Nothing makes you feel more
beautiful than crusty baking soda face.
It
wasn’t until college that I began to dabble in the forbidden art form. My sweet hairstylist friend convinced me that
my blond eyelashes could use some mascara.
I felt like I was using robotic surgical instruments with no prior
instruction. I pinched my eyelid with a
lash curler and that was almost the end of the experiment. After 15 years, I’m still not sure I’m doing
it right. I now wear eye makeup. Sometimes.
I lack complete confidence in my application technique. Lipstick, however, is going way too far. Lipstick makes me feel like a clown who is
slowly suffocating on baby powder.
Although
I don’t subscribe to my parent’s all makeup makes you look ridiculous theory, I
have to admit to a little bit of pride when my daughter told me mascara feels
like sticks glued to your eyelids and threw the container away, insisting she
looks fine the way she is.
Me, with and without makeup at 19. Maybe my dad has a point.
