i've grown accustomed to my face
It doesn't happen very often, but about once every two years, I am required to wear make-up. Ironically, it's usually in conjunction with a poetry performance wherein I am supposed to reveal my inner most thoughts. I'm supposed to come with my naked emotions. This daily ritual of women everywhere is foreign and ridiculous; foreign due to its rarity in my life and ridiculous in its long forgotten purpose: to make the wearer more attractive by creating the illusion of a symmetrical face with large eyes, full lips flush with blood, strong cheek bones; all manifestations of estrogen, sexual excitement and good genetics respectively. These exhibitions in turn are all factors which help women find mates, in the most primal sense. And primal it is when men don't realize why they find a certain made-up woman attractive. They just do. Fools. Make-up conceals, distracts and skirts around imperfections. It could be poetry's polar opposite.
Two weeks ago, the biannual make-up event occured as I had my first poetry gig since I made my pledge. It was a filmed event so as part of the "talent" for the night, I needed to be "camera ready." If left to my own devices, I may have inadvertently given myself a look that could be best described as Marilyn Manson-esque. I am an extraordinarily lazy person when it comes to personal grooming; if you see me with clean hair, it is likely that I am going to a wedding reception or a grand opening of a new Jamba Juice. I tried to get into a routine of wearing make-up a few years ago. I researched fashion magazine product lists and asked stylish women for their favorite brands. I bought a new lipstick and mascara. I would forget to re-apply my lipstick during the day and by 4pm would look like a 5 year-old with a red popsicle dependency. The mascara made my precious few eyelashes fall out leaving me with bald lids. I stopped trying after a few attempts and resigned to leave the painting of my face in the hands of professionals.
I waited patiently in the tiny dressing room while the other girls took their turn under the deft palette of Valerie Noble, a superior make-up artist who is intelligent, wise and lovely to be in the presence of. She used to be a hairdresser but turned to make-up a few years ago and loves what she does. We discussed the care and cleaning of brushes. Make-up artists are incredibly giving people. I assume they have to be in order to beautify strangers for a living. When it was my turn, I ambled into the fold-out chair. I sat bemusedly as Valerie applied her various flesh tinted foundations to my face. The brush was soft and silky. Admittedly, I was excited when she opened a small pink plastic case of false eyelashes. I had only gotten them once before when I was shot for a different poetry gig. As I looked down to hold my eyelids steady, she dipped each set of 4-5 lashes into the glue and applied them along my natural lash line. The glue was cold but warmed up when it dried. Every so often, she would survey the progress and would say "Wow." It made me feel special. After the eyelashes, mascara, blush and lip gloss were carefully added to the canvas of my visage. Valerie finally presented me with a mirror and as I held it, I looked into the face of someone who was beautiful and sparkly. It wasn't me; it was the magic of an artist's impression of me. In this make-up, I wasn't afraid of the spotlight or stage fright. I was afraid of smearing myself.
My evaluation of my performance was satisfactory. The boyfriend observed the proceedings along with two of our friends, The Duke and Penny, who had never seen live spoken word before. It had been a long time since I'd been in the company of poetry newbies. They soaked up the words with open-minds. They were the best kind of audience a poet can hope for, the kind that has no idea what to expect thus will accept everything in relation to the whole collection of poems and form their opinions for the first time at the end of the night. After the show, I met the three of them at a bar across the street where we discussed the highlights and low, LOWlights of the show and I was fascinated by their reactions to certain poets. Penny was generous with praise. The Duke was a little more discerning. However, poet friends of mine like Ratpack Slim and Shihan whom I admire and am honored to know were among their favorites. A few less than stellar poets, whom I also had the regrettable fortune of watching became the butts of our jokes. Poetry is subjective like any art but unlike something more specialized like say, sculpting, we have all been asked to write a poem at least once in our lives. Even if it was a rhymed couplet in elementary school on the intricate topic of one's "favorite color," we are all poets thus, we each have the license to critique. Perhaps they weren't able to comprehensively articulate their preferences, but the Duke and Penny both knew who they liked and who they didn't like. Couldn't explain it, they just did. But enough about that bullshit, I want to talk about my make-up.
During intermission, Valerie came up to a few of us poets and wished us well for the rest of the performance and told us that she had to leave. The boyfriend happened to be standing next to me so, I introduced them. She asked how he liked my make-up since I had mentioned that he had never seen me with it on before. Unprompted by me via dirty look or clandestine elbow jab (he was too far away) the boyfriend told her that I looked beautiful but that he liked me the way I am. She smiled and said that he was a keeper. I told her that I loved her work. She gave me her card. I hope to see her again.
When I returned home that evening, I was obsessed with my new face. I stared at my fake eyelashes with such intensity that I glimpsed Narcissus' rapture. I took photo after photo of this face because I knew that it would not be seen again for another two years. Prolonging the beauty was not an option. The boyfriend advised me to indulge and keep the make-up on overnight. Although I am no expert, the idea sounded disgusting. I lingered in front of the bathroom mirror, dreading the goodbye. Then, like a jaded nurse with an old band-aid, I slathered my face with soap, plucked off each lash and washed off every pigmented brushstroke. I watched the lashes fall into the sink. Tiny black feathers that swiveled and swirled as they slid down the drain. The old me was again in the mirror. The one who prefers to be behind the camera's lens. The real me.
Two weeks ago, the biannual make-up event occured as I had my first poetry gig since I made my pledge. It was a filmed event so as part of the "talent" for the night, I needed to be "camera ready." If left to my own devices, I may have inadvertently given myself a look that could be best described as Marilyn Manson-esque. I am an extraordinarily lazy person when it comes to personal grooming; if you see me with clean hair, it is likely that I am going to a wedding reception or a grand opening of a new Jamba Juice. I tried to get into a routine of wearing make-up a few years ago. I researched fashion magazine product lists and asked stylish women for their favorite brands. I bought a new lipstick and mascara. I would forget to re-apply my lipstick during the day and by 4pm would look like a 5 year-old with a red popsicle dependency. The mascara made my precious few eyelashes fall out leaving me with bald lids. I stopped trying after a few attempts and resigned to leave the painting of my face in the hands of professionals.
I waited patiently in the tiny dressing room while the other girls took their turn under the deft palette of Valerie Noble, a superior make-up artist who is intelligent, wise and lovely to be in the presence of. She used to be a hairdresser but turned to make-up a few years ago and loves what she does. We discussed the care and cleaning of brushes. Make-up artists are incredibly giving people. I assume they have to be in order to beautify strangers for a living. When it was my turn, I ambled into the fold-out chair. I sat bemusedly as Valerie applied her various flesh tinted foundations to my face. The brush was soft and silky. Admittedly, I was excited when she opened a small pink plastic case of false eyelashes. I had only gotten them once before when I was shot for a different poetry gig. As I looked down to hold my eyelids steady, she dipped each set of 4-5 lashes into the glue and applied them along my natural lash line. The glue was cold but warmed up when it dried. Every so often, she would survey the progress and would say "Wow." It made me feel special. After the eyelashes, mascara, blush and lip gloss were carefully added to the canvas of my visage. Valerie finally presented me with a mirror and as I held it, I looked into the face of someone who was beautiful and sparkly. It wasn't me; it was the magic of an artist's impression of me. In this make-up, I wasn't afraid of the spotlight or stage fright. I was afraid of smearing myself.
My evaluation of my performance was satisfactory. The boyfriend observed the proceedings along with two of our friends, The Duke and Penny, who had never seen live spoken word before. It had been a long time since I'd been in the company of poetry newbies. They soaked up the words with open-minds. They were the best kind of audience a poet can hope for, the kind that has no idea what to expect thus will accept everything in relation to the whole collection of poems and form their opinions for the first time at the end of the night. After the show, I met the three of them at a bar across the street where we discussed the highlights and low, LOWlights of the show and I was fascinated by their reactions to certain poets. Penny was generous with praise. The Duke was a little more discerning. However, poet friends of mine like Ratpack Slim and Shihan whom I admire and am honored to know were among their favorites. A few less than stellar poets, whom I also had the regrettable fortune of watching became the butts of our jokes. Poetry is subjective like any art but unlike something more specialized like say, sculpting, we have all been asked to write a poem at least once in our lives. Even if it was a rhymed couplet in elementary school on the intricate topic of one's "favorite color," we are all poets thus, we each have the license to critique. Perhaps they weren't able to comprehensively articulate their preferences, but the Duke and Penny both knew who they liked and who they didn't like. Couldn't explain it, they just did. But enough about that bullshit, I want to talk about my make-up.
During intermission, Valerie came up to a few of us poets and wished us well for the rest of the performance and told us that she had to leave. The boyfriend happened to be standing next to me so, I introduced them. She asked how he liked my make-up since I had mentioned that he had never seen me with it on before. Unprompted by me via dirty look or clandestine elbow jab (he was too far away) the boyfriend told her that I looked beautiful but that he liked me the way I am. She smiled and said that he was a keeper. I told her that I loved her work. She gave me her card. I hope to see her again.
When I returned home that evening, I was obsessed with my new face. I stared at my fake eyelashes with such intensity that I glimpsed Narcissus' rapture. I took photo after photo of this face because I knew that it would not be seen again for another two years. Prolonging the beauty was not an option. The boyfriend advised me to indulge and keep the make-up on overnight. Although I am no expert, the idea sounded disgusting. I lingered in front of the bathroom mirror, dreading the goodbye. Then, like a jaded nurse with an old band-aid, I slathered my face with soap, plucked off each lash and washed off every pigmented brushstroke. I watched the lashes fall into the sink. Tiny black feathers that swiveled and swirled as they slid down the drain. The old me was again in the mirror. The one who prefers to be behind the camera's lens. The real me.
posted by Katie at 9:20 PM
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