One morning in high school, I overslept my alarm. With only about ten minutes to get ready, I did the bare necessities: brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and threw on the nearest clothes I could find, slipping on my backpack to rush out the door. I didn’t have the time to put on makeup. In second period, John did a double take at me and said, “Wow, you look tired.”
The irony was that I actually slept an extra hour that morning, but to him my natural under eye bags looked like exhaustion. In the moment, I didn’t find his comment that big of a deal, yet since that day I don’t think I’ve ever left the house without wearing concealer—it has become just a part of my morning routine as brushing my teeth or putting on shoes.
You see, I love wearing makeup. My mother, sister, and I bond over painting our faces; we crowd the bathroom mirror, trying on different shades of red lipstick while blasting music that I often pick out, and they often hate. We have been doing this routine for years. And we do it because it makes us feel good. We do it for ourselves.
When I wake up in the morning, I love deciding on how far I’m going to take my makeup that day. Some days will just be foundation and blush, other days will be a bold lip and strokes of mascara. It’s the perfect distraction before the reality of my day creeps in—the test, essay, or person I’ll have to deal with later.
Though I wonder if I always wear makeup just for myself. I think back to that memory of high school and how I subconsciously required myself to wear concealer every day after one boy told me I looked tired without it. The feminist in me cringes yet I can’t say I’ve left the house without it recently.
This past Sunday, I ran into a friend at a coffee shop. Before I could even say hello, she apologized for looking “like a man.” Her hair was thrown up in a hat, and she was wearing no makeup and sweats. She actually believed her physical appearance warranted an apology—as if it was some type of disservice to my eyes. I clearly found her apology ridiculous, however, there I was with fresh concealer under my eyes. Would I feel the same need to say sorry if I hadn’t put it on that morning?
It makes me think about makeup in a different context. And even makes me re-evaluate the word itself: “make-up.” Are we making up for something by wearing it? When I google it, the first definition states: “cosmetics such as lipstick or powder applied to the face, used to enhance or alter the appearance.” It sounds about right, but the word “alter” makes me pause. I’m sure I’m overthinking this, like most things, but I wonder why some days I almost feel bad for not “altering” my face at all.
I know plenty of girls who have no problem going through their day with a bare face. And I know other girls, like my roommate, who worships makeup and views it as an art. I guess it’s different for every female and different in every context, but I know that sometimes I put on makeup in fear that I’ll look lesser without it. But to whom exactly will I look lesser?
Makeup is such a personal choice—when to put it on, how much to put on, or whether to put it on at all. I just pray that we aren’t dipping our faces each morning to appease some societal expectation. It is fun and mindless, and it gives us confidence, but it should be used for just that. And the moment we start putting it on for any other purpose other than ourselves is the moment we must put down our makeup brush.
