making it up

Growing up, I watched with fascination each morning as my mother applied her makeup and readied for the day. She rubbed into her skin a creamy foundation, brushed on puffs of powder, rouged her cheeks, lined her eyelids with black pencil, and swooped her eyelashes up and outward with strokes of mascara. Her simple routine became my measure for makeup normalcy. I assumed that all other mothers followed this exact beauty regimen. And when I entered adolescence and my parents relented in allowing me to paint my face like the millions of young women who’d reached this benchmark before me, I learned to apply makeup exactly as my mother did every morning. I bought my own hue of creamy foundation, a container of translucent powder, and the perfect pink blush. I experimented with various mascaras and eyeliner pencils until I found my own equation that worked.  

I have now been wearing makeup for over a decade. I wear it regularly—almost every day. Throughout college I found out that many girls wore no makeup and I dared to wear my face au natural too. But I always felt self-conscious and returned to my makeup after only a few days. I struggled to cover up each and every imperfection on my face—the uneven splotches of red, large pores, an oily T-zone, and, of course, pimples. 

Recently I also began noticing those natural and inevitable little lines forming around the corners of my mouth and in the blank spot between my eyebrows, the faint pencil marks of what will someday be creases etched away by time—wrinkles. 

A friend of mine mentioned her own face wrinkles and creases a few weeks ago. I never noticed them before, but upon further inspection, I saw them too—little mirror images of my own. She mentioned that she had started using cold cream and skin toner in an attempt to get an early start on the anti-aging process. I mentioned this to my husband later that evening while peering into the mirror at my face, squinting to reveal and touch them.  

“Should I start using cold cream too? Should I be buying anti-wrinkle ointment already?”

My husband did the husbandly thing and told me I am beautiful, kissed me, and left the bathroom.

I thought about those questions for a few weeks though. I pondered this aging situation and the extreme pressure in our society to look perfect—airbrushed even—to look young no matter what our age. Now, instead of the perfect makeup regimen, I am contemplating how to beat gravity, how to remain youthful and maintain the glow of healthy skin. 

After reading an article over at one of my favorite blogs (her.meneutics) about how our society equates beauty with youth and old age with ugliness, I grew angry. I grew angry because of the pressure I feel as a woman to constantly be (and feel) desirable, beautiful, and put together. I grew angry because of the all-too-popular attitude that tries to tell me that those beautiful lines on my mother’s face are ugly, not an incredible testament to a wonderful life well-lived. And I grew angry because I have allowed myself to be ensnared in this trap of insecurity and superficiality for far too long. 

I want to take good care of my skin—hydrate it, clean it, guard it from the hot sun. I want to drink lots of water, exercise, and eat well. And I want to wake up, embrace and accept my imperfections, and move on from the mirror each morning. This is my hope for all women, for all people.

My hope is that someday, when I am an old woman with a network of lines and creases traversing the contours of my face, I will look into the mirror and know the true definition of beauty—a good life lived in love and friendship, reflecting the grace and mercy of God. I want to rejoice over each and every wrinkle. I want to love my own life lines then as much as I love those of my beautiful mother now.