by MICHELLE KONSTANTINOVSKY
Makeup can be fun. It can be transformative. It can mean the difference between a red-rimmed, puffy, public admission of late-night debauchery and bright-eyed office decorum. It can be artistic, subtle, theatrical, expressive. Makeup can be great.
It can also be a complete pain in the arse.
Fresh off a two-day girls’ trip to Arizona, I feel I can say with some authority that skipping the liner-mascara-gloss routine (or primer-powder-bronzer procedure/shadow-concealer-foundation drill—whatever your poison may be) is incredibly freeing. Recklessly rubbing your eyes without the fear of smudging, clumping, or smearing feels like a heavenly embrace from your fingers to your lids (though your opthamologist may not agree).
Grabbing breakfast, splashing around in the pool, and reciting passages from Fifty Shades of Grey to your sunbathing friends without a worry about lipstick reapplication is so liberating (that embarrassing admission of poolside reading material didn’t go unnoticed, did it?).
And obviously it doesn’t take a girls-only getaway to facilitate barefaced abandon. Plenty of women save the makeup for special occasions, and many forego cosmetics altogether. It really comes down to personal preference, and as a society, we’re generally very accepting and tolerant of women’s individual choices.
Yeah, no, that’s not exactly how our culture operates. Clearly there are endless norms and expectations set by the media, our peers, our traditions, etc. regarding women’s weight, shape, wardrobe and more. We’re definitely not obligated to follow any of these helpful (i.e. oppressive) suggestions (i.e. laws of the land), but it’s hard to not feel gently encouraged (i.e. poked and prodded into submission).