One night a few weeks ago I stood in front of the bathroom sink and looked in the mirror. I had put on makeup that day, and I thought that I looked nice. It's a quirk of mine that if I take the trouble to put on makeup that day I'm always reluctant to take it off at night.
But it was late in the evening. It was time to take it off. With a sigh, I lathered up the soap on my fingertips and scrubbed at my eyes.
The other odd thing is that once I actually plunge the suds against my eyelids, I wonder why I put it off before. Warm water, bubbles, scrubbing. The stiffness and sparkly and smudges let go. It feels good.
Once I felt that it was all off, I rinsed with more warm water. First my hands, then my eyes. I felt it all run off my face.
Then I looked up into the mirror.
A feeling of mild shock. The girl in the mirror was the same I'd seen earlier, but she looked totally different. The pleasure of the rinse had brought a little smile to the corners of my mouth and my eyes looked relieved and happy. Some of the facial makeup had come up as well, so the girl in the mirror had her naturally rosy cheeks blooming unashamedly under the faint line of freckles on her cheekbones.
It surprised me because I had thought that I had looked so nice in my makeup, but this look left it far behind. The expression on my face was one that no camera has ever captured before. That unaffected, unguarded little smile of unconcerned pleasure.
My heart lifted within me for one fleeting moment. It was one of those rare moments that in a rush of surprise, I suddenly see myself when I didn't expect to. One of those moments where I knew for sure that I actually am beautiful. Knew---not arguing with myself, not even hoping---just knowing, objectively, honestly; feeling certain deep down inside that I actually do have a beauty all my own.
Of course the moment I became aware of it, it diminished. The rush of surprise and delight faded, but it left behind the memory of certainty.
On a side note here, I've been reading an excellent book by John and Stasi Eldredge called "Captivating." The tagline is, "Unveiling the mystery of a woman's soul." I'm not going to give a review on it, but I will say that reading it is like a breath of fresh air. I read John Eldredge's book, "Wild At Heart," a few months ago, and I was impressed, but still a little uncertain about some of the finer points. But as I'm reading this revised and expanded edition of "Captivating," my suspicions have come to nothing. They're right. They're spot-on. Every woman needs to know the things they are saying in this book. It's full of truth that we as women both in our culture as well as in the church have left behind. Check it out, you won't regret it.
My little revelation was not the first I've ever had. But it made me think about makeup and the role it's played in my life.
When I was a little girl, people always said I had such rosy cheeks, and they were right. They're pretty hard to miss. I have all of this natural pink all over them, not just up on the cheekbones where ladies apply blush. I always liked that about my face; in an innocent way I was proud of them. Most of the adults drew attention to them in a complimentary way, and of course I appreciated that.
But when I became a teen, they started to work against me. People saw my rosy face and immediately made the assumption that I was younger than I was. Their attitude toward me was this infuriating sweetness instead of actually weighing my words and thoughts seriously. All the time I could tell they were thinking, "Aww, isn't she so cute??" and I could tell they thought my serious conversation was "cute," too, the way we listen to a small child's earnest words.
The rule in our house about makeup was you had to be sixteen. I guess you could say I lucked out on that one. Mother saw that I needed a bit of concealer and some foundation so that I could look more my age. She told me that I always looked flushed, as if I'd just been running, and we all know running is entirely inappropriate for a fourteen year old. I thought that was rather unfair. I never ran in public by that time, but it still looked as though I had been. Guilt by circumstantial evidence, apparently. She further reasoned what I'd already noticed; that people perceived rosy cheeks as a little girl thing that I needed to grow out of.
In stories, the oldest girl is always the rebellious one who is pushing all the parental rules to the limit and straining at every leash, especially with wanting makeup before she's sixteen. I am the oldest daughter, but that's not the way I was. I was rather reluctant toward makeup. I didn't like the idea of covering up something that I always thought was kind of a gift. But over all I was fairly neutral to the idea, and once I started wearing concealer and foundation I began to like it. It did make me look my age and it didn't take away the color. It merely evened and smoothed it out. It made me feel more grown up, and I liked that.
When I turned sixteen, I was given eye makeup, and so it began. At first I didn't like it at all. I thought it made me look like someone else. It made me look stiff and formal and uncomfortable. It made me look too dressed up, and Mother was encouraging me to wear it every time I stepped out the door. Smudging color on my eyelid made me look bizarre. I hated how mascara made my lashes look spidery. I saw no reason to draw lines around my eyes. It made me look like a painted doll. With all my makeup on, I looked like I was wearing a mask.
It took time to get used to it, and now of course I enjoy it. My idea of successful makeup application is having enough on to accentuate my features while looking like I'm not wearing any at all. I look at pictures of Emma Watson online, and I love her image. Classy, sweet, sophisticated. Mysterious, alluring, natural, all of them at once.
I think of makeup as a persona. I guess I've always felt that way about it in the back of my mind. I look young for my age. If I am not dolled up before I leave the house, people are going to see me as younger than I am. They are not going to take me seriously unless I have an image of a woman. I'm in my twenties now, so to be perceived as younger would be bad. Right? I guess so.
Like I said, I enjoy dressing up and looking like a woman. It's like going onstage whenever I go out into the world. I am a woman, so there's no shame in looking the part. I enjoy it.
And yet a professional woman is only part of who I am. At the end of the day, makeup is only a mask. There are times, like the other night, when I look at myself without makeup, and I actually question why I even wear it. This is who I am. This is how God formed me. Why do I have to cover up my pretty rosy cheeks? Why do I have to accentuate my eyes and lips when they were handcrafted by God Himself? My different smiles and expressions are much more important than any color I could put on them myself.
I miss those days when rosy cheeks were a thing of beauty. When I was a teenager, they stopped becoming a beautiful thing and became something to ashamed of---looking younger than I was. Now as an adult, I'm sorry to say I've bought into that shame a little, seldom leaving the house without just a trace of foundation to smooth it out. I see and hear about all these products to stop "rosacea," like it's this horrible defect, or something to get rid of, or at least to "control."
When I was a teenager, I began blushing easily. I was self-conscious and tried very hard to be proper and do the right thing. A bit of teasing, and my face started heating up like a microwave, my cheeks first, then spreading all over my face. People could see it immediately, and they laughed at me, making me blush even more. Sure it was embarrassing, and yeah, I took myself a little too seriously back then, but actually I'm kind of glad that I blush easily. In the Bible, and sometimes in other (older!) books, it's a sign of modesty or transparency. Today it's nothing more than an indicator of who's-got-a-crush-on-who, but I think the old meaning still holds. When I see a girl who blushes easily, I appreciate that in her. If she's shy or transparent, then she probably is sweet and kind, not brash and flippant like many young girls.
I just miss those days when beauty was something that I knew I had and never had to feel ashamed of. I like freckles and rosy cheeks. It looks fresh, healthy, vibrant. I liked it when people appreciated my natural beauty, and I didn't have to mask myself to be understood or listened to. When I didn't have to look jaded and shrewd and guarded and---striving all the time.
I long to be a woman, yes. But I want to be one of those women with dancing eyes who walks with a careless, breezy grace. I want to be transparent as well as wise and discerning. I want my hair to be loose as well as tastefully styled. Windblown, unpretentious, with a mystery about her. Deep, perceiving eyes as well as a ready smile and a playful sense of humor. A sense of ethereal other-worldliness and freedom about her, like the wind.
A woman at peace. A woman confident in God's love, unafraid to love deeply and to pour herself into others.
That's the kind of beauty I want to have.
~Cadenza
But it was late in the evening. It was time to take it off. With a sigh, I lathered up the soap on my fingertips and scrubbed at my eyes.
The other odd thing is that once I actually plunge the suds against my eyelids, I wonder why I put it off before. Warm water, bubbles, scrubbing. The stiffness and sparkly and smudges let go. It feels good.
Once I felt that it was all off, I rinsed with more warm water. First my hands, then my eyes. I felt it all run off my face.
Then I looked up into the mirror.
A feeling of mild shock. The girl in the mirror was the same I'd seen earlier, but she looked totally different. The pleasure of the rinse had brought a little smile to the corners of my mouth and my eyes looked relieved and happy. Some of the facial makeup had come up as well, so the girl in the mirror had her naturally rosy cheeks blooming unashamedly under the faint line of freckles on her cheekbones.
It surprised me because I had thought that I had looked so nice in my makeup, but this look left it far behind. The expression on my face was one that no camera has ever captured before. That unaffected, unguarded little smile of unconcerned pleasure.
My heart lifted within me for one fleeting moment. It was one of those rare moments that in a rush of surprise, I suddenly see myself when I didn't expect to. One of those moments where I knew for sure that I actually am beautiful. Knew---not arguing with myself, not even hoping---just knowing, objectively, honestly; feeling certain deep down inside that I actually do have a beauty all my own.
Of course the moment I became aware of it, it diminished. The rush of surprise and delight faded, but it left behind the memory of certainty.
On a side note here, I've been reading an excellent book by John and Stasi Eldredge called "Captivating." The tagline is, "Unveiling the mystery of a woman's soul." I'm not going to give a review on it, but I will say that reading it is like a breath of fresh air. I read John Eldredge's book, "Wild At Heart," a few months ago, and I was impressed, but still a little uncertain about some of the finer points. But as I'm reading this revised and expanded edition of "Captivating," my suspicions have come to nothing. They're right. They're spot-on. Every woman needs to know the things they are saying in this book. It's full of truth that we as women both in our culture as well as in the church have left behind. Check it out, you won't regret it.
My little revelation was not the first I've ever had. But it made me think about makeup and the role it's played in my life.
When I was a little girl, people always said I had such rosy cheeks, and they were right. They're pretty hard to miss. I have all of this natural pink all over them, not just up on the cheekbones where ladies apply blush. I always liked that about my face; in an innocent way I was proud of them. Most of the adults drew attention to them in a complimentary way, and of course I appreciated that.
But when I became a teen, they started to work against me. People saw my rosy face and immediately made the assumption that I was younger than I was. Their attitude toward me was this infuriating sweetness instead of actually weighing my words and thoughts seriously. All the time I could tell they were thinking, "Aww, isn't she so cute??" and I could tell they thought my serious conversation was "cute," too, the way we listen to a small child's earnest words.
The rule in our house about makeup was you had to be sixteen. I guess you could say I lucked out on that one. Mother saw that I needed a bit of concealer and some foundation so that I could look more my age. She told me that I always looked flushed, as if I'd just been running, and we all know running is entirely inappropriate for a fourteen year old. I thought that was rather unfair. I never ran in public by that time, but it still looked as though I had been. Guilt by circumstantial evidence, apparently. She further reasoned what I'd already noticed; that people perceived rosy cheeks as a little girl thing that I needed to grow out of.
In stories, the oldest girl is always the rebellious one who is pushing all the parental rules to the limit and straining at every leash, especially with wanting makeup before she's sixteen. I am the oldest daughter, but that's not the way I was. I was rather reluctant toward makeup. I didn't like the idea of covering up something that I always thought was kind of a gift. But over all I was fairly neutral to the idea, and once I started wearing concealer and foundation I began to like it. It did make me look my age and it didn't take away the color. It merely evened and smoothed it out. It made me feel more grown up, and I liked that.
When I turned sixteen, I was given eye makeup, and so it began. At first I didn't like it at all. I thought it made me look like someone else. It made me look stiff and formal and uncomfortable. It made me look too dressed up, and Mother was encouraging me to wear it every time I stepped out the door. Smudging color on my eyelid made me look bizarre. I hated how mascara made my lashes look spidery. I saw no reason to draw lines around my eyes. It made me look like a painted doll. With all my makeup on, I looked like I was wearing a mask.
It took time to get used to it, and now of course I enjoy it. My idea of successful makeup application is having enough on to accentuate my features while looking like I'm not wearing any at all. I look at pictures of Emma Watson online, and I love her image. Classy, sweet, sophisticated. Mysterious, alluring, natural, all of them at once.
I think of makeup as a persona. I guess I've always felt that way about it in the back of my mind. I look young for my age. If I am not dolled up before I leave the house, people are going to see me as younger than I am. They are not going to take me seriously unless I have an image of a woman. I'm in my twenties now, so to be perceived as younger would be bad. Right? I guess so.
Like I said, I enjoy dressing up and looking like a woman. It's like going onstage whenever I go out into the world. I am a woman, so there's no shame in looking the part. I enjoy it.
And yet a professional woman is only part of who I am. At the end of the day, makeup is only a mask. There are times, like the other night, when I look at myself without makeup, and I actually question why I even wear it. This is who I am. This is how God formed me. Why do I have to cover up my pretty rosy cheeks? Why do I have to accentuate my eyes and lips when they were handcrafted by God Himself? My different smiles and expressions are much more important than any color I could put on them myself.
I miss those days when rosy cheeks were a thing of beauty. When I was a teenager, they stopped becoming a beautiful thing and became something to ashamed of---looking younger than I was. Now as an adult, I'm sorry to say I've bought into that shame a little, seldom leaving the house without just a trace of foundation to smooth it out. I see and hear about all these products to stop "rosacea," like it's this horrible defect, or something to get rid of, or at least to "control."
When I was a teenager, I began blushing easily. I was self-conscious and tried very hard to be proper and do the right thing. A bit of teasing, and my face started heating up like a microwave, my cheeks first, then spreading all over my face. People could see it immediately, and they laughed at me, making me blush even more. Sure it was embarrassing, and yeah, I took myself a little too seriously back then, but actually I'm kind of glad that I blush easily. In the Bible, and sometimes in other (older!) books, it's a sign of modesty or transparency. Today it's nothing more than an indicator of who's-got-a-crush-on-who, but I think the old meaning still holds. When I see a girl who blushes easily, I appreciate that in her. If she's shy or transparent, then she probably is sweet and kind, not brash and flippant like many young girls.
I just miss those days when beauty was something that I knew I had and never had to feel ashamed of. I like freckles and rosy cheeks. It looks fresh, healthy, vibrant. I liked it when people appreciated my natural beauty, and I didn't have to mask myself to be understood or listened to. When I didn't have to look jaded and shrewd and guarded and---striving all the time.
I long to be a woman, yes. But I want to be one of those women with dancing eyes who walks with a careless, breezy grace. I want to be transparent as well as wise and discerning. I want my hair to be loose as well as tastefully styled. Windblown, unpretentious, with a mystery about her. Deep, perceiving eyes as well as a ready smile and a playful sense of humor. A sense of ethereal other-worldliness and freedom about her, like the wind.
A woman at peace. A woman confident in God's love, unafraid to love deeply and to pour herself into others.
That's the kind of beauty I want to have.
~Cadenza
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