I’ve had various contretemps with women (and men) of various generations on the subject of make-up.
For whatever reason as a little girl, I was never particularly enamored of make-up or nail-polish or anything like that. My feeling was always, “Lawd, too much wuk.” That doesn’t mean for stage, screen or a night out I don’t spruce up; au contraire. I like to enhance as much as the next girl. But for day-to-day tasks – going in to work, a casual lime – no, I ain’t doing that to myself or my skin (the allergies, the zits, the falling asleep without removing the make-up and dirtying your pillowcases..). Not to mention that it’s expensive. And the more careful you are in choosing something that won’t adversely affect your skin, the more you have to dig in to you pocket. And when I studying mortgage right now, make-up falls low on the list of priorities.
But besides the obvious disinclinations, there’s one far more practical and perhaps even more vain reason to abstain from wearing make-up than for actually wearing it.
In the last few weeks, I’ve had reason not to be seen at my best, and grossly au naturale. But, apart from the cuts, bruises and things, my face was the same as it always is (bags under eyes notwithstanding). And therein lies my point. Had I been in a far worse off position (God forbid – ah well grateful for where ah is!!) and hospitalised or otherwise unable to groom, glam up, accentuate, or even just enhance with make-up, tweezers, and a lady’s arsenal of smoke and mirrors, I would shudder to think someone would come to visit me and exclaim, “Jah, daz what she REALLY looks like?!”
So I go stick where ah is. I glad to offer some consistency and then offer up something a little more “artful” from time to time to keep it fresh. And that is the word for today.