Most of the time, I don’t remember what my face looks like.

I’m used to the version that appears in photos and in mirrors during the day—the one wearing a dozen different cosmetics to hide blemishes and erase redness and hide dark circles and emphasize my cheekbones and my eyes.

I spend the majority of my time in a mask, so I’m always a little surprised to see the face beneath it.

I should note, of course, that for the most part, I wear makeup because I enjoy applying it. Blending eyeshadow is an art. Painting my lips red or purple is a form of self-expression. I don’t need to be saved from the cosmetic industry’s evil grasp.

But I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a part of me that wears makeup because it boosts my self-esteem. I don’t consider this terribly pitiable or narcissistic; we all want to be a little more beautiful than we are, don’t we?

Still, in high school, I was the girl who showed up to school every day—and to the SAT and the AP exams and pajama day during spirit week—with a full face of makeup. I found ways to wear makeup to the pool, to the beach, and to water parks. Even my closest friends have hardly ever seen me without it.

My whole life, I have been trying to control how people see me. Makeup was one of the easiest ways to do this, so I wore it constantly.

I was sometimes the only girl who did, and that was a different kind of self-consciousness. Everyone could see I was hiding. Everyone could see I was trying pretty hard to do it. At school, I got lots of comments to the effect of “Wow, how early did you have to wake up to do that?” Not judgmental, necessarily, just amazed that I would sacrifice half an hour or more of sleep every morning to tweak my appearance.

Now that I’m in college, and sleep becomes more and more alluring, I’ve redefined those boundaries; sometimes I sleep in, skip the full cosmetic routine, and settle for a swipe of mascara on my eyelashes and a dab of concealer on the reddest parts of my face.

But I very, very rarely exit the building without first having tried to minimize the features I like least. And when I do, I spend most of the day wondering what everyone else thinks—of my real face and of the fact that I was too lazy to conceal it that day.

Which is ridiculous, of course. I owe them nothing. And more than likely, they expect nothing. And if they did, they’d be out of line.

It’s not my responsibility to constantly look as attractive as possible to spare passing acquaintances the horror of seeing acne or redness or other normal features of natural faces. It’s also not my responsibility to explain my love of makeup to them when I am wearing full foundation and dazzling highlighter and pink eyeshadow.

If they think less of me for either of those choices, they’re probably some form of sexist, and there was nothing I could have done to impress them anyway.

It’s just a face. It isn’t a sneak peek into who I am as a person. That doesn’t change, no matter what I look like.

It’s my face. I need to stop feeling guilty for wearing it the way I want.