Making Faces

Inga Larsen had it all: legs, looks, and a sexy Scandinavian accent. All the boys mooned over her. All the girls wanted to be her. But I figured out her secret early on: eye shadow. And not just any eye shadow, green eye shadow. A women’s magazine I read during my high school days of body image insecurity said that using green eye shadow made blue eyes look even bluer. So that was Inga’s secret—in addition to being a tall, mysterious blonde. Figuring that the reverse would also work, I ran out and invested in drugstore blue eye shadow to apply on my own green eyes. Thus began a few years of experimentation.

My studies of the grown-up world had made it clear that adult women wore makeup to proclaim their freedom from girlishness. If so, I figured applying makeup to my adolescent face would transform me into a more mature and sophisticated woman. Even though my mother forbade my wearing makeup until I was sixteen years old, I nonetheless sneaked tubes of lipstick, mascara, and eye shadow out of the house each morning and carefully applied them en route to school. Thus transformed I entered the classroom, a magnet (I believed) for female envy and male desire. That I might also be the cause of my teacher’s raised eyebrows never crossed my mind. One day an older girl asked me what color eye shadow I was wearing. Success! And even though not a single boy or man has ever complimented me on my makeup, I persist to this day in believing my field-tested theory that makeup makes the woman.

I’m long past the illusion that makeup can compensate for perceived physical flaws. A thick nose might be camouflaged into thinness by artfully applied makeup, but only a camera is fooled. Close up, anyone with eyes notices the makeup trick instantly. Makeup takes time to apply—time, patience, and some skill. If I’m in a hurry, I completely dispense with every artificial additive, except mascara. My eyes look wimpy without lashes coated in black mascara. With it, I am a formidable presence in the world. My eyes are coaxed and heightened into their full, green glory. Take that! my mascara’d eyes say to the world. I’m ready for you.

Inga was obviously going for dramatic effect with that green eye shadow. “Look at me!” she was insisting. For me, makeup is a subtler ally, a tool of enhancement. My body is my entry point into the world, which is why I maintain a few rituals of care and maintenance through makeup. My hands move over the surface of my face, as if to reassure each feature of my continuing devotion. A quick glance at the back of the head in the mirror—yes, my hair is reasonably well organized. A hint of blush on the tops of the cheeks brings them into their best focus. I read in that same long-ago women’s magazine that it was a good idea to apply makeup the same way every time—first eyeliner, then mascara, then a dab of coverup under the eyes, and finally blusher. And like some advice in magazines, this one has worked for me.

My hands long ago learned this routine, and, as a result, they begin the process all by themselves. My face loves the few moments of attention performed by my hands as I fuss a bit with hair, adjustments of skin tone—those red marks on my nose just won’t do! My hands know when I get too carried away with the eyeliner or when the lipstick is too dark to be flattering. The hands are highly aware and conscious. So I let them work and edit the results. The completed effect is one of shiny, fresh reinvigoration. I am ready.

And even if the light application of makeup I allow myself doesn’t make a huge visual difference, it is a ritual uniting my personal experience of my body—my hands, face, and hair—with the public body that goes out and stakes a claim in the everyday world. The whole thing is an act of spiritual devotion. I am decorating myself as a sacred artifact, even though I long ago dispensed with the Inga-inspired eye shadow. But I could always change my mind. Makeup is one transformation that can easily be washed off.