I wondered why she didn’t like her unpainted face. I quite liked it. Without all her make-up, she looked more like a mom, and less like a magazine ad for cosmetics.
When we went on vacation, my sisters and I dreaded waiting for our mom to pack her bags. This would inevitably be after the rest of the family was done packing and waiting anxiously to leave for wherever it was we were going. My mom would meticulously lay out all her outfits, and then she would match her make-up to each outfit. If she was taking her brown sweater, then the suede eye shadow trio would definitely have to come, as would the Tawny Taupe lipstick. A pink top meant a few options, because she couldn’t predict whether she would be feeling Fabulously Fuschia or Blushing Blossom. We watched her mix and match cosmetic colors with outfits for the better part of an hour, confused, annoyed, and angry.
Well, I have now become my mother. I put a face on.
It never used to be this way. My vanity has crept up on me. In the past, I thought women shouldn’t submit to false ideas of beauty. I thought we should be proud of our natural skin, blemishes and all. Then I turned twenty-five, and my skin changed. I saw red blotches, and uneven color. So, a little powder here, a dab of cheek stain there. Just a bit of help to accentuate my naturally lovely features.
Then I turned thirty. Now, I need even more help. It’s a full face. Unless I’m walking to get the mail, get coffee, or get an emergency bottle of wine at the store, I’m made up. I’m talking under-eye cream, eyelid redness minimizing cream, powder, bronzer, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, lip gloss, another dusting of powder to make certain it remains fresh-looking all day. Granted, I use an organic line of fantastic mineral-based make-up that enhances my features rather than hides them, and I don’t plaster on make-up like an old Master, but who am I kidding? It’s make-up, and it’s a ritual. African tribes spend less time painting their ceremonial masks.
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