make me up, before you go go

It's been years since I intentionally left the house without any make-up on.

Every morning I take pleasure in slowly getting ready. The right pair of socks can make me look forward to the day. The right underwear can determine my sex appeal. The right shirt can exude my exact mood. And the shoes, the shoes determine where I'm going.

But before anything I must prepare my face. First I soften my skin with a cold glob of moisturizer, giving it back the hydration that winter has robbed me of. Next I glide the soft brush of my blusher over my face to bring give me colour. To finish I follow the Egyptians by lining my eyes in dark black pencil. To soften it I sweep eye shadow softly over my eye lids and coat my lashes dark black. My innocent face feels more dramatic. I am ready to go out.

Is it sad that I find security in such amenities?

My room mate preaches the ease of natural beauty and a naked face. My brother tells me I am much more beautiful without make-up. Then he points at a grad picture, where I've had my make-up done and says "Look how perfect your skin is!" And I snap. "Of course it is! I'm wearing three layers of make-up there!"

I'm very visual. I remember events by what I was wearing, by what somebody else was wearing. Clothing and color are what my memory grabs onto, even though it's embarrassing to say "Oh I remember that Christmas, I was wearing my new blouse with jeans and white pumps."

Am I ugly without my war paint? No, I don't think so. But I'm not ready to present myself. Everything is not in order. I'm like a hotel bed when the pillows have not been fluffed, the corners of the blanket not been tucked in.

After beginning this post I decided I had to see what it felt like to venture out with a naked face. I spent a couple of hours in the morning, before going to work, sans make-up. I went walking, went to a cafe, went to the bookstore, and let the wind touch my pure, baby clean face.



The verdict? I felt strange. Extremely fresh and pure. As if I'd lost a certain edge but gained a new one. I was surprised to find that pervy older men still hit on me, as well as some pan handlers and some sketchy girl who said "You are really pretty," as I passed her on the sidewalk. Who me? No no, this isn't me, I'm at home with mascara and eye liner on.

In the end I still love feeling done up. I will probably continue to wear make-up and take pride in my morning routine. But at the same time...I'm letting out a huge breath of relief in knowing I don't have to.