Concealer

I officially started wearing make-up at the age of sixteen. This was when I legitimately had my parents’ permission. I’d been sneaking mascara and lipstick since a year earlier.

The first time I stood in the mirror at home, having given my face “the works”, I temporarily lost sight of myself. I felt a loss. All my naivety was falling apart at the seams. Momentarily I was walking in someone else’s shoes. I looked like a clown. The mascara, the lipstick, in addition to the eye shadow and liner; it all felt false. The moment passed. I started to accept this new person. Convinced myself she was better.

At times, I sit and try to remember what I did without make-up. Officially, I don’t wear that much make-up. I stick to the basics: concealer, mascara, lip gloss and occasionally eyeliner and/or light eye shadow. Due to my blond hair my eyebrows are very light so I consistently darken them up just to bring them to life. Sadly though, I hate to go anywhere without at least applying some concealer and mascara. I’m convinced that makes all the difference. Its not that I don’t like my face, I’m just in constant competition with prettier faces. More self-confident people.

I’m a bit obsessed with what people see when they look at me. I credit this obsession to my dad. It had occurred to me suddenly that my dad had never complimented me on the way I look. Never told me I was pretty. Or beautiful. Or cute. How lucky some guy would be to have me. At least not directly, or within my earshot [maybe my dreams]. The thought of it makes my eyes water. It hurts that that seemingly small detail makes such a big difference.

I look for that validation everywhere. Despite the plenty of daily compliments. Despite the reflection in the mirror that is far from ugly. Despite the catcalls and whistles that I’m secretly ashamed to admit that I like; appreciate even. It validates this unending need for my own personal satisfaction. Validation I won’t get from my father. I’ve learned to forgive him. To not hate what he’s incapable of giving. So I wear my make-up as a shield. It’s always tasteful but pitiful. I’m not trying to accentuate my natural beauty for vanity’s sake. I’m hoping to find confidence through the eyes of the world.

My self-confidence is contrived. Mostly my act is believable. At times, when I’m around my sister my act comes apart. She’s so self-confident she’s almost conceited. I scrutinize her, studying to see if she is for real. We do have the same father. But it’s not an act. Is it because she’s six years younger? She’s his favorite. I try to emulate her. Then I’m pissed. I’m the older sister -she should be looking up to me.

I’m my own counselor. I already know the questions. My responses. The tears. The hurt. Pain. Self-hatred. But in reality I don’t know the answer. I can’t tell you why I won’t stop scrutinizing myself in the mirror. Picking apart all of my positive qualities. Adding negatives.

Make-up is my compensation for lost compliments. For never being daddy’s little girl. For wishing I didn’t care so much. For not being able to stop. Caring.