on cosmetics and self-image

My mom trots into the hotel dressing room, eyes skimming the sea of lavender-swathed bridesmaids, all dressed to the nines. Her glance searches impatiently, doesn’t find. “Where’s Ann?” she calls. I look up at her, sitting less than five feet from her, and raise my hand pointedly. She does a double take. “Ann! I didn’t even see you, hun. You look so much older! And so elegant.”

I heard a variation of this compliment at least a dozen times during my sister’s wedding. I was the maid of honor, so makeup and hair artists had spent two full hours dolling me up to bridesmaid par. Once they were done, even my closest friends and family did a double take when they saw me. Their eyes would slide over me blankly, then flick back in surprise as they recognized the person below the powder and gloss. “Ann?! Wow! You look amazing.”

I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the attention. It was gratifying to play the part of charming young belle, to glance in the mirror and be pleased every time by the appearance of symmetry. The layers of cosmetics covered the blemishes of self-image as well as those of the skin. That’s not to say that I ordinarily dislike the way I look—I love my body and all its quirks—but like anyone else, I experience pangs of doubt and insecurity. I am not unattractive, but I know that I am nowhere near a 10 by conventional standards. The rush of compliments and flirtatious advances boosted my ego, made me feel both beautiful and capable.

At the same time, I didn’t feel like myself.

Anyone who knows me personally also knows that I almost never wear makeup. Some people have questioned my choice to eschew cosmetics in everyday life, and that decision is explained single-handedly by my view of self. When I cover my face with cosmetics, I don’t feel like me. I feel like I’m wearing a mask, a shiny façade that allows me to play a role rather than express myself. (As for the issue of attractiveness, if a man only loves me when I’m wearing makeup, he isn’t the sort of man I want.) I do use blush or eyeliner on rare special occasions, such as dances or weddings. But when I see photos of myself wearing makeup, I get simultaneous feelings of pride and acute discomfort. That girl is really pretty, but why the hell is she wearing my clothes? I’ve gotten used to the spots and shadows of my everyday face, and without them, I’m all wrong, like a cat dressed as a cupcake.

I know many women who identify strongly with their use of makeup, who derive confidence and stability from their daily cosmetic routine. I’ve heard strong, independent-thinking women joke that they have to “put on [their] face” before they go out. It is not my place to judge these women, and if cosmetics make them feel empowered, I am happy for them. It is their right to take pride in the way they cultivate their appearance.

I’ve also been told, however, that I will not be taken seriously in the professional world if I do not use beauty products. I now know this to be an exaggerated example, but there is a grain of truth behind it. Women are simply expected to wear cosmetics. For a long time this has confused me to no end. Why would an allegedly advanced society require people to paint, paste, and powder our skin before we are respected? The answer is that beauty still rules human interaction in many ways. The focus on physical attractiveness is not likely to change, and even I am guilty of perpetuating its reign. On my Facebook page, the conflict of image is apparent in my cover and profile photos: one with heavy makeup, the other with none. I can’t deny that the makeup makes me look more symmetrical, more mature, more pretty—and part of me is irrepressibly drawn to the allure of my own beautification.

And perhaps that temptation is not something I need to banish entirely. I don’t have to despise cosmetics or boycott them forever. It’s okay to powder my cheeks and gloss my lips a few times a year, to temporarily borrow the face of that other young woman. But in a small way I would still like to stage my rebellion against the monopoly of makeup: because my everyday life, my daily existence, will always belong to my genuine and unadulterated face. I still grin when I glance in the mirror because I know that the image before me, in all its imperfection, is also radiant in its authenticity. Only that face is wholly and truly mine.