I’d like to say that the genesis of No Make Up May was initiated by a zen-like moment of self-love and clarity. I’d like to, but I can’t.
About four years ago I was in the midst of a long bout of depression, and feeling very tired; certainly, too tired to continue to try to appear "Okay". I was too tired to continue to put on my face every day and fool people into thinking myself pretty. Alright then, said I, no more BS, here I am in all my ugliness! For one month, I didn’t want to lie anymore. For one month, I left my house every day, defying people to look me in the eye, defying people to look at what what I felt was tired, haggard, and disgusting, from the inside out. Every day I knew that I was leaving my house barely visible to those “others” on the street. Every day, wanting to sink into the pavement beneath my feet, and knowing that my wish would not be granted. I had to step anyway.
By the end of the month though, something odd happened. The angry defiance within me had transformed into something. A sort of light. I felt it come out of me. I felt it emanate from my eyes, my spirit. By week three and a half, something inside of me had cracked open, and light was pouring out.
What had happened, and what annually continues to happen, is that I had made peace with my face. I had made peace with the bare brown eyes staring back at me, the pale skin, the blemishes, the feather-like lashes. I had stopped “enhancing” it. My face, my real face, had stopped hiding, because I had stopped using it to hide. I was so amazed by this new perspective on myself, so amazed at the oddly grounded confidence that I’d gained, that I knew that it was a practice that I would have to continue, and I have every year since. Happily, I might add, under different motives than the sense of futility which had initially driven me forward.
The annual journey, however, has not proved itself easier with each passing year. I stick to it though. Religeously. Because I know myself. I know that if I cheat once, I likely will stop altogether, and so I become somewhat fanatical about it. Yes, I’ve even had a first-date with no make-up. And, to my surprise, I was offered a second. (How little we think of ourselves!).
The four weeks come and go, by now I’ve noticed a few patterns:
On week one, you can typically find me physically bracing myself before I leave the house, and have to daily talk myself into this practice of “no make up”. I’ve likely spent more time on my hair, maybe taking more care not to dress in all black. Clothes and hair are now the only aesthetic defence mechanisms that I am allowed - and I use them. Fully.
By week two, I am literally counting down the days to when I can cover myself up again. I fantasize about going to the MAC counters, or turning heads at a club. This is also the week that my body - because it apparently shares my appreciation for morbid humour - decides to break out in pimples. I swear to God. Can I wash my face? Yes. Can I cover those damn zits up with anything? No. Unless it’s a paper bag. Crap.
By week three, I feel as though I’ve mastered my “new” deceptive arts. Because I rarely feel confident this month, I’ve worked harder at maintaining eye contact, harder at exuding a confidence which I secretly lack, and I work harder at focusing on the person in front of me - if I focus my attention on them, I think less of my own shortcomings. But it is in this latter practice that I believe my transformation stems from - recognizing, out of forced necessity, that my value, and the value of those around me, is not dependent upon my face. It is here that I learn that I am still engaging, still active, still fascinating. Because, look, “they” haven’t turned away, have they? By the time that this realization truly sinks in though, by the time the bare visage in the mirror is no longer a grotesque stranger but a fresh-faced woman, I am usually at day 25 or 26. It takes me that long. THAT LONG!
But... it’s worth the wait.
By week four, I like that bare face. I like it right in time to be given the permission to start covering it up again. But, by week four, sometimes I don’t need to. By week four, I usually find my “smokey” eye looks are a bit garish, a bit much. How on earth was this my “norm” only a few weeks ago? By the beginning of June, there are days where I still don’t wear make-up, because I just don’t feel like it. And I feel free. Because, I probably am. At least for a while.
My dependencies do creep back eventually. A year is a long time for tried and true habits to creep back in, for insecurities to resurface. The war-paint becomes more comfortable as I do battle with myself and the world around me. But, Spring is here again. And again, I shall choose to lay myself bare, and find my self-love, and, ultimately, removed myself from that system of “beauty” which I know harms me, and yet which my compliance supports during the other 11 months of the year. It is in May, however, that I rebell a little. It is hard. Most good things are.
Thanks for joining me on this journey. Believe it or not, I feel better already knowing that this year I shall not be going at it alone.
Take care!
H.
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