The Unpainted Lady, or A Month Without Makeup
Over the past year and a bit, in an effort to improve my quality of life, I've been re-evaluating what's important – taking an active look-see to test if time and tide have brought me any new wisdom, as they are wont to do.
I've thought a lot about what I truly need for a happy existence, what I want, and what I can do without: seeking out the heart in the chatter, to remind myself of what matters. From my wonky analyses came the idea to go without makeup for a while, and see how it made me feel.
I learned some things about myself in the process, and a fair bit about how some others see me, too...
My relationship with makeup
Back in my youth, I'd have used the word 'tomboy' to describe myself in a lot of ways, but now I present as much more classically ‘feminine’. Regardless, I have always been fascinated by, and loved, makeup. I think I always will.
It's a zen moment of calm.
It's a fun way to express myself.
It's a superhero costume.
It's an outlet for creativity.
It's something that makes me feel pretty, for when I want to feel pretty in the ways I like.
It's something that makes me feel more socially-acceptably-pretty, for when I want to fit into that idea of beauty.
It's self-care. Go, team!
It's something I enjoy doing, for me.
It's a subject that incorporates both science and art in a way that makes me really happy.
It's a little area of my life that mostly involves women. I like women. Women rock.
It's a multi-million dollar industry, which markets and sells specific, bizarre artefacts to a portion of society at whom things aren't always directed. Totally fascinating.
On top of all this, a study showed that women wearing more makeup are considered more competent, so its application is a sad necessity to just get along in a business environment and not have my abilities viewed unfairly. Go figure.
Am I any good at makeup? No. I can't contour my way out of a paper bag. I have a greasy T-zone and the stuff slides off if I'm not careful, despite primer, stay-on foundation, and the good ol’ bake 'n’ fix. I'm not good at makeup, but I'm good enough at it for me.
Stuff, and nonsense
I have a shedload of stuff. Or, I should say, I had. Past-tense. Part of my ongoing personal revolution has meant decluttering my entire house of excess stuff – but we'll tumble down that beautifully-organised rabbithole another time. As well as clearing the physical realm, I've been questioning my own assumptions about who and how I am: asking what expenditures I could eliminate, and what habits I could happily discard. What pieces of the me that I am now do I want to I keep, and what's...superfluous nonsense I could do away with?
Where the stuff and nonsense intersect, sits makeup. Looking at my massive (or should that be ma-hoooo-sive?) stash, the first major revelation was that I burn through cosmetics less quickly than I purchase them. I didn't need as much as I had, and (even after a big clearout) I could pare down further. A total kibosh on purchasing any more is now in place – and I’ve made a promise to myself to only break that when one of my holy grail products runs out.
Applying makeup is a daily ritual; a habit, but not a need, and one I'm fine without... But I've grown so used to presenting myself in a certain way, that it's worth asking if all that still applies. (Pun intended.)
What would happen if I went for a little while, completely makeup free? How would it make me feel? What might I learn about myself? Would I miss it? Or would it become clear it’s just another frippery to excise?
How I felt about it
On the daily: applying makeup eats a lot of time.
My usual morning routine would be: shower, skincare, deoderant, dry hair, primer, foundation, concealer, brows, contour(ish), blush, highlighter, eyeliner, curl lashes, mascara, lips, dress, boots, done. That's a lot of steps just to get up in the morning, but it's what I'd kind of fallen into by habit. I like makeup, and I like to do things well (or well enough) if I'm going to do them.
Without warpaint that became: shower, skincare, deo, dry hair, dress, boots, done.
A good half hour not spent doodling on my face. It was fast. I liked it! For my month of no makeup, I got into work earlier.
I didn't mind going barefaced. Sure, it felt weird to catch my reflection in something and be reminded I was presenting bare-necessities-Fay to the world. But I'm still me under the makeup anyway, and this is my face. My appearance doesn't change who I am...
My husband didn't see any problem either – same me, but less dressy, y'know? His (in)ability to keep his hands off me was...not affected by the experiment.
After a couple of weeks fresh-faced I'd catch myself daydreaming about applying eyeliner, and then I’d have to mentally pinch myself. When the month ended and I sat in front of my makeup bag and mirror, I realised I wanted to get wild with it...but I also wanted to apply less makeup than I used to on a daily basis, and spend less time on it every day, too. My baseline had shifted.
The experiment reset my ideas of minimal effort, and as such, got me excited about makeup again, because it was back to being a special thing, with different levels of application to pull out for different occasions. It reminded me of how nice it is, and how easy it is, to be dressed-up sometimes...and the same for being rough ‘n’ ready sometimes. Wash, dry, dressed, done. Like blokes do.
Sadly, following the bloke method of getting ready for a month didn't meet everyone else's approval…
It started with a week
I started my experiment after a few days' absence due to illness, which naturally meant the more observant folks spotted that something was different but they couldn't put their finger on what. They assumed that I looked how I did because I was still ill, as evidenced from sly looks, slyer comments, and outright asks to question if I was really okay. (I told them I was fine, but it didn’t seem to register.)
Fair enough; bad timing. But I was back, in good health, the same me as always, and in good enough spirits – the only thing different about me was the lack of makeup. So I extended my barefaced tenure by another week, and another, and then another to round out the whole month of February. The concern didn't die down: people spoke to me, in subtle ways, like I was blatantly ill, for the whole month. Like I was run-down. Like I needed sympathy, and rest. Like I needed a holiday. Like something was severely wrong with me and we were all tiptoeing around it.
I was still as energised and tired, happy and cranky, healed and broken as the ups and downs of everyday always. It was a pretty great month for my bare skin, actually, but despite my protestations when asked, none of it mattered: no makeup = I look ill.
I mean, sure… It's really sweet that some people were genuinely concerned, but can we take a moment to recognise how it's also really fucked up? Because it means that overall, the assumption is that 'normal' is wearing makeup – which it isn't and shouldn't be. But is, Because Society.
Or maybe I'm just more of a goblin without makeup than I realised? Could be. Or maybe I'm better at ‘glowing up’ on a daily basis than I ever thought. Likewise.
Either way, it makes me uncomfortable.
A Woman's Worth
Speaking of feeling uncomfortable, let's talk about some of the guys. You know the ones, the sleazy ones who always try to low-level (or not so low-level) flirt with you at work. Imagine if you stopped wearing makeup for a month, and they...stopped doing so. And instead, they started trying to conceal not-so-micro-expressions of disgust when they saw you in the corridor, and started avoiding you. And then you started wearing makeup again and they instantly started being flirtatious again. Imagine that.
I don’t have to.
Let’s get this straight. Whether I wear makeup or not doesn’t signify whether I am a sexual object for people at work: I am not. I never am. I am there to work. End of.
Which is why it was nice to note that some people were totally unfazed by my lack of paint. No outright concern, no disgust, just friendly as ever. Lovely. I see you. And I appreciate you.
The pecking order and the pageant
I'm pretty much past it nowadays anyway, but it was also interesting how certain young ladies (who wouldn't usually behave in a very friendly fashion towards me) were notably warmer during my no-makeup month. They tolerated smalltalk, or even initiated conversation with me; they'd usually just blank me to my face and flounce out of the lift first. Mind-boggling. It was as if my place on the unspoken pecking order of women had been bumped down a few pegs, and since I guess we were no longer in competition, it was okay to be nice.
Hey y’all, we're not competing! Let’s just be nice!
One dear lady spoke to me about how I should get some rest, every (clap) single (clap) time (CLAP) we had occasion for smalltalk, throughout February. The day I started wearing makeup, she stopped dead in her tracks and, loudly exclaimed:
'You! You're BACK! Like, I can see it, you look different. You're BACK!'
As if I'd somehow absented my personality and usefulness when I zipped up my cosmetics bag four weeks’ earler. I'd only stepped out of the invisible pageant for a few weeks, but my lack of rouge had signified more to the outward observer than it had truly meant. To this particular observer, bless her, I'd lost some part of myself when I declined to paint on my superhero mask. I was not whole. I had gone missing from myself.
Which is ironic really, because when I actually did lose myself a few years earlier in an alcohol abuse problem – but still applied makeup – nobody noticed a damn thing.
What I learned about other people
I got straight up confirmation of which guys think of me as an object first, and a professional second. I had some nice chats with some ladies who’ve blanked me in the past, but now we're solid, even though I'm back to wearing makeup again. I've learned how most people (who noticed) saw my lack of slap as a sign of illness, and which of those people were misguidedly, but sweetly, concerned. The people I trust, to listen to what I actually say when I speak, didn't see me as any different whether I was wearing makeup or not. Or if they did, they were politic enough to keep it to themselves...
The biggest takeaway from all this remains as I’d secretly suspected from the beginning: the expectation is that I should be wearing makeup. Not doing so for any period of time, when you used to, might make a whole lot of people think something is terribly wrong with you, despite all other apperaances.
What I learned about myself
I had way too much makeup, and now I’ve streamlined my makeup case, I feel lighter.
During my barefaced month, I missed the fun ritual of applying my superhero mask.
In general, I still love makeup. But…I really cannot be bothered to do a full face on the daily these days, or to the extent I may have in the past. I like wearing makeup, and I like going without, and I'd forgotten how noticeable the latter is...to many folk who think makeup maketh the woman.
Here's to remembering some of the other ways I can be, and still be happy, and how that's just fine.
(And how you can pry my liquid liner from my cold, dead hands…)
Love always,
Fay
xXx