I remember as a child watching my mother put on her lipstick as her final step in gussying herself up for my father when they went on the rare date night. In my young eyes, my mother transformed from “Mommy” to some beautiful strange woman. With MAGIC! Her “crayon” changed her lip color! I remember her facing me and smiling when I told her she looked so beautiful - like Barbie. I also remember her fury when I had gotten into her same “magic crayons” and painted my own face. I decidedly did NOT look like Barbie…it wasn’t until years later that I understood my mother’s fury. My step-mother was the kind of parent that liked going into bedrooms to snoop around and didn’t latch my bedroom door. My little sister, at the tender age of 3, decided that my posters needed to be touched up a bit. Apparently Jordan Knight looked better with “Wine” on his chest and my little sister ruined a $5 tube of lipstick (this was back in 1991 - $5 was a lot of money to a teenager back then). My father’s response to my fury over the destruction of property and invasion of privacy?

“Make up is a waste of money and it doesn’t make you look good.”

Not gonna lie, even now, umpteen million years later, that hurts. I always thought I looked pretty when I put on make-up. No one ever said anything contrary to what I thought - and believe me, the bullies at school would have said something about how I looked. They always did. But, if my dad, who never really lied to me and was usually always right, so he was probably being truthful and right in this case. Wasn’t he?

So I stopped wearing make-up except for special occasions, like Homecoming or Senior prom. I was never asked on dates, so outside of those two events, or me and my girlfriends messing around during a sleepover with our Caboodles, I didn’t wear makeup regularly. I figured Dad was right, especially since I went through high school without a boyfriend. Not even the most desperate of my older brother’s friends tried to get with me - although my friends were fair game, apparently. So I just stopped wearing makeup altogether.

And I didn’t until I had my first date with my late husband over a decade later. Again, I thought I looked good. My little sisters thought I looked good. My dad thought I looked good. My date didn’t look at me funny, so I thought he thought I looked decent enough. That wasn’t enough for me to wear it day to day - I liked sleep more than I liked looking good back then (a 3am wake up with a work start time of 4am kinda made me wanna catch necessary sleep). It wasn’t until years later, when my late husband and I were going through a rough patch, did I start wearing makeup regularly. Every woman goes through this with her man - prettying herself up to get noticed. And in typical fashion, it fell flat. When asked about it, my husband said he didn’t like me wearing makeup. I asked why, because he seemed to like it when I wore it while we were dating. His response?

“You looked like a hooker.” Not gonna lie, that hit harder than anything said to me. And I just gave up wearing makeup. Years later, I don’t remember the reason why, I started wearing it again - except it was more subdued. Like, just mascara. Then as time wore on, eye shadow. Nothing too dark, too dramatic - hell, half the time no one knew I was wearing makeup. Oh, I looked good - my eyes are my best facial feature (having long eyelashes and big ol’ doe eyes helped) and I felt better about myself. I soon began using darker colors - to which my husband would grouse about. “Why are you wearing makeup?” he would grumble as I left the bathroom in the morning. “You know I think you look fine without it.” I would ignore him, but one day, he said particularly venomous; to which I responded (rather haughtily, if I’m to be honest), “I don’t wear makeup for a man. I wear makeup for ME.”

And that became my go-to phrase whenever someone asked why I was wearing makeup - which happened every time I did. I guess going “au natural” was so much my thing that no one could fathom why I would wear makeup.

When my husband passed away, I continued not to wear makeup. Mainly because runny mascara and eyeliner while at work isn’t a good look for anyone, much less a person that didn’t want her emotions to be known. Which that in of itself is kind of fucked up because everyone knew I was a new widow - they all were part of my husband’s last year on earth before the cancer took him, so it wasn’t like they wouldn’t have known why I was crying…

But I digress! We’re talking about makeup here. On Halloween that year, I wore makeup for the first time in I don’t know how long. It wasn’t your usual Halloween makeup, but for me, it was. I posted it to Facebook with “Most everyone will be wearing makeup today - I didn't want to be left out” I even wore lipstick - something I hadn’t done EVER, mainly because I could never find a shade that didn’t make me think “you’re being whorish.” I felt good. The colors I chose weren’t my usual colors; my foundation wasn’t too mis-matchy with my skin tone and I learned that lipstick didn’t need to be full strength to look lovely. The only thing I didn’t like about the whole ordeal was the fact that I still couldn’t master the art of concealer - the redness under my lash line from crying the night before was still visible, but all in all, I looked gorgeous.

I continued to wear makeup on and off throughout the following year - mainly just for playing around with it. But work began to speed up and playtime was reduced to “Holy fuck, I need sleep” time. Soon, I was back to just wearing it for a special occasion. Usually Halloween. But I noticed that when I did have enough time to put on a full face, I felt better about myself; I felt pretty. I was more confident (until the radio played a song that reminded me of my late husband and I had to remove myself from the store); I was more outgoing (joking with absolute strangers is not something I usually do). I felt more like me, even though it wasn’t really what I looked like. And that was when the ingrained insecurities set in:

“Make up is a lie.”

“You don’t really look like that.”

“You look fine without makeup.”

Why is it always the men telling us women that shit?

Anyhoo, fast forward through my previous relationship. I wore makeup on our dates - not that he noticed nor did he even comment on it (and sometimes I looked damned good). As the relationship spiraled down into the crapper, I wore it more and more often trying to get his attention. The one time he did notice he asked, “Why you wearing makeup?” It was his tone that triggered the insecurities, so instead of shouting, “Cuz I’m trying to get the attention of an idiotic mook who can’t seem to tell when his girlfriend is horny and really wants to get laid,” I just shrugged and said, “Whenever I get depressed, I wear makeup. I’m fine.” After the implosion and the drama of the breakup, I started wearing make up as a “fuck you dude, look at what you threw away,” but it became more. I used it as armor - never again would I let someone that close to me, see me as I truly am. It’s not what I wanted, but it was what I told myself; no one was going to see my naked face again. Then it morphed into something else. I don’t know when it happened, or how, but good lord I felt feminine. Like any male is my plaything and I could have the pick of the litter. It kinda helped that I was on dating sites and apps and wasn’t agonizing over male company. The compliments were shallow, but goddamn! For someone who never really heard how beautiful she physically was, it was an enormous ego boost!

Then something happened that totally blew me away. When I looked in the mirror, just as a passing glance, I no longer saw the 230 pound girl I used to be. I saw a fine looking middle aged woman who didn’t look anywhere near 50 years old. This gorgeous woman was staring back at me with a smirk, her makeup totally on point and her clothes making her look hot as hell.

Oh yeah…I’m a MILF. Maybe all those compliments weren’t shallow after all.

As the week’s post breakup continued, I never left my house without some noticeable type of make up on. It didn’t matter if I was having a night on the town, going grocery shopping, or just working around my chicken yard; I had my face painted. People who hadn’t seen me in years, and are used to seeing my naked face, would comment on how nice I looked. One friend even exclaimed, “Damn, if I weren’t gay, I’d bang you!”

Not going to lie, when a gay friend says that about you it makes you feel pretty good. Our discussion continued as we talked about the merits of cosmetics and why people want to wear it. I said it was war paint just because I was butthurt over my recent breakup. My friend agreed but added, “It’s not just the world you are fighting, ladybug. It’s yourself.”

He was right. Make up, for me, is protection against myself; that bitchy little voice in my head that plays every little insecurity I have on repeat. The same bitchy voice that screams derision and ridicules my every waking moment. When I wear make up, and I hear that little voice, I just look into the mirror and smirk.

“Bitch please. I’m a fine ass woman and I can kick your ass, so shut the fuck up.”

So I guess even at a young age, sitting on the toilet watching my mom apply her makeup, I was right. Make up transformed my mommy into a fierce warrior that slayed demons and monsters that dared to speak ill of her. And as I apply my own lipstick, I can feel the bitch in my head shrink further back into my mind. She knows I’m coming for her - I’m tired of hearing her bullshit constantly and am looking to end her shit once and for all - so she stays hidden.

Yeah, makeup is powerful stuff - even if it can’t outright kill our demons, it sure does shut them the hell up for awhile.