I've recently rekindled a lost love for the library. A recent venture to my favorite house of books, met me with a day of flaming heat. I'd begun to sweat, and irritation spread over me as my makeup began to smear. In my quest for vanity, (why deny it?) I knew that within a few days, I would find a makeup who's sole purpose was to stay put on my face. Since the age of 16, I'd had the same problem. But I was certain that my makeup man at MAC would solve my nasty little problem. He had, after all, found me the perfect mascara- and my love for mascara nearly matches my love of books. Okay, not really, but you get the point. I thought of his card, in my wallet, with the upcoming date of a consultation, cursing the sheen on my face, knowing it would end soon.
This "thing" I have with makeup began when I was young...I had to have been 14 or so, and not much older, if that. I'd struggled with the concept of "beauty," throughout high school, and rather than learn the ways of the wise, I chose to defy it completely, which led to a number of epic fails in my time. I was certain that my personality would shine through the misery of my exterior and that the good in people would come through once they came to see the failure in their quest for high school war.
This was not a smart assertion, as much as it was a hopeful one. This was a young girl, dreaming, with a still-compassionate heart and hope for the best. I came to eat my words on more than a few occasions.
It started in middle school. Boys pulled my hair and tossed trash at me. Flicked my bra straps and tripped me in hallways. You can assure yourself, this was not an attempt on their behalf to get my good attention. During a dance in sixth grade, I had the chance to dance with, who I thought was the cutest boy in all the world. The lights in our small gym grew dark, and a Metallica song sprang from the speakers and this boy, this prince, an 8th grader asked me to dance. Though stunned, I'd pulled myself by my boot straps and confidently placed my hands upon his shoulders, certain that this would be the life for me in middle school. Falling asleep that night was like living in a dream.
And come Monday, I came to a school filled with the smacks of hi-fives, whistles and smiles from a swarm of 8th graders. My mood elated, I walked the halls with a confidence unknown to me. In a flurry, a small friend of mine came up with a look of dread. I could not understand why she would not share in my happiness.
"Brett. He told the whole school you paid him $20 to dance with you."
Oh...of course he did.
As a freshman, I was deemed "Troll" no surprise by the hottest senior in school. He said it to my face, whispered it to me at my locker, under his breath and through a number of his classmates. The name "Pizza Face," was soon to follow, though I'm pretty sure that "Troll" was worse. By my sophomore year of high school, I'd come to understand that a person could in fact make enemies with just a physical presence. This became especially clear while pulling books from my locker, in prep for my next class. In what I now deem quite an entertaining furry, an older boy took my backpack from it's resting place before me, and tore the contests from their rightful place, kicked my backpack like a soccer ball far from me, and ended the escapade by yelling "faggot vegan," I assume to me and not the backpack he was kicking. Yes. Verbatim, and I quote. Humorously, this boy became a vegan one year later, though I find it hard to believe he did this out of compassion for animals or that he was actually wise enough, at the time, to discern the ecological, social and political morals, grounding and justifying the lifestyle choice.
Junior year seemed a little less hostile, and I think I'd accepted my fate as the "ugly girl," and found a way to cope with my existence. On a bright afternoon, a friend of mine and I sat in her brightly lit bedroom, pouring over her sister's yearbook. We'd giggled and eyed the boys we thought were cute and then, stopped short at the image of one school photo, in particular. My breath caught in my chest, and a small panic brought hot tears to my eyes, with a sharp pain. My friend's sister had circled my class photo in bold purple marker, with a line leading to the small margin beside the row of pictures. In the margin, written in the same purple pen were the words, "Dog of The Universe." As if the line connecting the circle were not enough to mark the title, a giant arrow sprang forth, above my photo. There was nothing funny about that moment, and there still exists in me a ripe hated for that girl, despite my age and my assumption that I should know better.
The concept of beauty was certainly a cheeky little bastard, and my mom's attempts to build my self-esteem, with the introduction of makeup, was well intended though not enough, evidently, to armor myself against the onslaught of adolescents....which brings us back to the library.
A girl, and who I assumed to be her mother, sat at a table on the first floor of the library, pouring over a stack of fashion and beauty magazines. I thought of my mom, at that moment, sure she'd wished I would have been a girl like that, spending time reviewing the latest makeup trends and fashionistas. That was until I saw the girl's face. She was crying- the girl was sitting at a table, head hung over a magazine and she was crying. Feeling an awkward dread, I walked past both and stood before my coveted Sunset Magazine. Standing before the shelving before me, an exasperated sigh escaped the lips of a woman to my left. Looking over, I noticed Mom, from the table behind me. She looked at me blankly, and simply said "I don't know what else to do." Silently, I glanced back at her daughter and back to mom. "She starts high school in two weeks and is devastated because says she can't apply her makeup correctly, and a childhood friend of her's claims she's dumping their friendship because she's not 'pretty.'"
I smiled and thought of my own "dog days" and reached into my purse. I pulled out the MAC appointment card, and passed it to the woman. "This is Robert. Take my appointment- he's the best ever. He can give her some tools and keep it simple."
The woman looked as if a train had hit her, and smiled. "Are you sure?" she asked.
"Absolutely. It's hard being a girl. I know."
I left the library without a book in-hand and called Robert immediately. He's familiar with my own horror stories and seemed excited about the chance to bring a young girl in to what would hopefully be the beginnings of a strong identity.
Folks might fall at their feet at the thought of young girls wearing a mask of makeup, in order to maintain an identity, but I don't take those fears too seriously. I would never simply assume that the application of make-up would have made me prom queen, back in the day, but it's certainly helped pick me up, in recent years- and though I did not pay heed to her advice early on, I appreciate my mom's own attempts to help shape an identity of my own, by letting me find it myself....many years later, and on my own time, even at the cost of a number of ugly years early on.
And now at 31, I can say with a smile, and with a somewhat vain sense of pride, Goddess Bless mascara and red lipstick. So it takes me 15 more minutes in the morning, to ensure that my mascara's perfect or that my lips are filled properly. Call me shallow but these days, with a stronger sense of character and a tube of mascara (my own Excalibur) I smile at the thought of my past as the " Dog of the Universe." A certain amount of pride extends when my own red lips smile at the knowledge that my own dog days instilled, in me, a strong sensitivity and a resounding and surprising sense of gratefulness to those who made life miserable years ago. Folks occasionally still tilt the dagger my direction, and I still find myself appreciative of their own callousness as they continue to encourage me to be everything they are not.
Words are a powerful thing, no doubt. Yet tact is far superior to even the wisest or wittiest of words.
This "thing" I have with makeup began when I was young...I had to have been 14 or so, and not much older, if that. I'd struggled with the concept of "beauty," throughout high school, and rather than learn the ways of the wise, I chose to defy it completely, which led to a number of epic fails in my time. I was certain that my personality would shine through the misery of my exterior and that the good in people would come through once they came to see the failure in their quest for high school war.
This was not a smart assertion, as much as it was a hopeful one. This was a young girl, dreaming, with a still-compassionate heart and hope for the best. I came to eat my words on more than a few occasions.
It started in middle school. Boys pulled my hair and tossed trash at me. Flicked my bra straps and tripped me in hallways. You can assure yourself, this was not an attempt on their behalf to get my good attention. During a dance in sixth grade, I had the chance to dance with, who I thought was the cutest boy in all the world. The lights in our small gym grew dark, and a Metallica song sprang from the speakers and this boy, this prince, an 8th grader asked me to dance. Though stunned, I'd pulled myself by my boot straps and confidently placed my hands upon his shoulders, certain that this would be the life for me in middle school. Falling asleep that night was like living in a dream.
And come Monday, I came to a school filled with the smacks of hi-fives, whistles and smiles from a swarm of 8th graders. My mood elated, I walked the halls with a confidence unknown to me. In a flurry, a small friend of mine came up with a look of dread. I could not understand why she would not share in my happiness.
"Brett. He told the whole school you paid him $20 to dance with you."
Oh...of course he did.
As a freshman, I was deemed "Troll" no surprise by the hottest senior in school. He said it to my face, whispered it to me at my locker, under his breath and through a number of his classmates. The name "Pizza Face," was soon to follow, though I'm pretty sure that "Troll" was worse. By my sophomore year of high school, I'd come to understand that a person could in fact make enemies with just a physical presence. This became especially clear while pulling books from my locker, in prep for my next class. In what I now deem quite an entertaining furry, an older boy took my backpack from it's resting place before me, and tore the contests from their rightful place, kicked my backpack like a soccer ball far from me, and ended the escapade by yelling "faggot vegan," I assume to me and not the backpack he was kicking. Yes. Verbatim, and I quote. Humorously, this boy became a vegan one year later, though I find it hard to believe he did this out of compassion for animals or that he was actually wise enough, at the time, to discern the ecological, social and political morals, grounding and justifying the lifestyle choice.
Junior year seemed a little less hostile, and I think I'd accepted my fate as the "ugly girl," and found a way to cope with my existence. On a bright afternoon, a friend of mine and I sat in her brightly lit bedroom, pouring over her sister's yearbook. We'd giggled and eyed the boys we thought were cute and then, stopped short at the image of one school photo, in particular. My breath caught in my chest, and a small panic brought hot tears to my eyes, with a sharp pain. My friend's sister had circled my class photo in bold purple marker, with a line leading to the small margin beside the row of pictures. In the margin, written in the same purple pen were the words, "Dog of The Universe." As if the line connecting the circle were not enough to mark the title, a giant arrow sprang forth, above my photo. There was nothing funny about that moment, and there still exists in me a ripe hated for that girl, despite my age and my assumption that I should know better.
The concept of beauty was certainly a cheeky little bastard, and my mom's attempts to build my self-esteem, with the introduction of makeup, was well intended though not enough, evidently, to armor myself against the onslaught of adolescents....which brings us back to the library.
A girl, and who I assumed to be her mother, sat at a table on the first floor of the library, pouring over a stack of fashion and beauty magazines. I thought of my mom, at that moment, sure she'd wished I would have been a girl like that, spending time reviewing the latest makeup trends and fashionistas. That was until I saw the girl's face. She was crying- the girl was sitting at a table, head hung over a magazine and she was crying. Feeling an awkward dread, I walked past both and stood before my coveted Sunset Magazine. Standing before the shelving before me, an exasperated sigh escaped the lips of a woman to my left. Looking over, I noticed Mom, from the table behind me. She looked at me blankly, and simply said "I don't know what else to do." Silently, I glanced back at her daughter and back to mom. "She starts high school in two weeks and is devastated because says she can't apply her makeup correctly, and a childhood friend of her's claims she's dumping their friendship because she's not 'pretty.'"
I smiled and thought of my own "dog days" and reached into my purse. I pulled out the MAC appointment card, and passed it to the woman. "This is Robert. Take my appointment- he's the best ever. He can give her some tools and keep it simple."
The woman looked as if a train had hit her, and smiled. "Are you sure?" she asked.
"Absolutely. It's hard being a girl. I know."
I left the library without a book in-hand and called Robert immediately. He's familiar with my own horror stories and seemed excited about the chance to bring a young girl in to what would hopefully be the beginnings of a strong identity.
Folks might fall at their feet at the thought of young girls wearing a mask of makeup, in order to maintain an identity, but I don't take those fears too seriously. I would never simply assume that the application of make-up would have made me prom queen, back in the day, but it's certainly helped pick me up, in recent years- and though I did not pay heed to her advice early on, I appreciate my mom's own attempts to help shape an identity of my own, by letting me find it myself....many years later, and on my own time, even at the cost of a number of ugly years early on.
And now at 31, I can say with a smile, and with a somewhat vain sense of pride, Goddess Bless mascara and red lipstick. So it takes me 15 more minutes in the morning, to ensure that my mascara's perfect or that my lips are filled properly. Call me shallow but these days, with a stronger sense of character and a tube of mascara (my own Excalibur) I smile at the thought of my past as the " Dog of the Universe." A certain amount of pride extends when my own red lips smile at the knowledge that my own dog days instilled, in me, a strong sensitivity and a resounding and surprising sense of gratefulness to those who made life miserable years ago. Folks occasionally still tilt the dagger my direction, and I still find myself appreciative of their own callousness as they continue to encourage me to be everything they are not.
Words are a powerful thing, no doubt. Yet tact is far superior to even the wisest or wittiest of words.
