Mom used to tell me that people stared at me because I was so beautiful. Maybe back then, in my teens, I was vain enough to believe her (I know teenagers are even more vain now, but I could have given Gen Z a run for their money on vanity back then). I’m not anymore. Now I know that I’ve reached “a certain age” where no one looks at me twice. Unless, of course, it’s because of how hideous I must be. It’s quite a polar opposite shift, in terms of public reactions, that occurs between youth and “oldness.” Granted, I haven’t even hit fifty yet, but society still does what it can to put women out to pasture by forty (like Madonna said)—and that’s if they’re lucky. Some people still have it in their minds that life is over for women at thirty. 

I hope that isn’t the case because I feel like my life has barely started. At least, not when it comes to “making a mark” (other than the fake beauty one I apply above the right side of my upper lip with a brown eyebrow pencil every day). That foolish dream so many people share. Even though, statistically speaking, dreams simply can’t come true for everyone. I still wanted to believe they could for me, no matter what my age. Even though the only people I’d ever really heard of being “successful” (a.k.a. famous) later on in life were men. Not that I wanted to be famous—but I did want to be taken seriously in something. What that was, I had no idea. And maybe that was a key part of my stagnation. Along with continuing to do my makeup in pretty much exactly the same way I did when I was a teenager: foundation caked on, thick, heavy raccoon eyeliner and daubs of mascara that always ended up clumping my lashes together. 

Some might ask why, if I was aware this might not be the best look (regardless of age), I would keep applying it. Well, because I felt my appearance was even worse without that “armor” on. As much as I hated being stared at in close quarters for having “bad makeup,” I hated even more the notion of some judgmental bitch appraising my actual face. That’s what Mom would used to do too…anytime she saw me without makeup. “Oh Vivian, I didn’t realize how bad your acne was” or “You look so pale without your foundation.” Yes, I tended to wear foundation that was two shades darker than my skin and then mitigate the skin tone discrepancy by covering my neck and arms with whatever clothes and accessories I put on for the day. Really, it has always been quite elaborate and involved to be me. To feel like I can’t exist in front of other people without makeup on, no matter how obvious it is that, yes, I’m wearing makeup. 

The thought of being appraised without it, however, instills within me a visceral reaction. One that’s filled with fear and anxiety. An utter unwanting. I do not ever want to be perceived without my maquillage. Shit, I don’t want to be perceived at all, but if I must be, this is the only way I can stomach it. And yet, if that’s true, why do I find myself wanting to cower in the corner of this fluorescently-lit public restroom? The one I tried to evade using after seeing so many women trickle into it after the movie (there’s something to be said for going to the bathroom during a movie so that you avert the post-viewing rush). But there was no evading it—I had to fucking piss.

The problem was that, being squeezed in there with so many other women, I was way too close to them. I couldn’t enjoy the “full-on Monet” benefits of being seen from far away rather than up close. And the woman in front of me was clearly noticing. She kept staring at me, with the same lack of abashment that a child might. I was infuriated. Not just because it was rude, but because, unlike in the past, when Mom said people were staring at me because I was so beautiful, I knew that it was just the opposite in this scenario. She was only staring at me because she thought I was hideous, my makeup a badly-blended mess. 

When a full minute went by and she still hadn’t removed her gaze from homing in on my face (as though trying to determine the thing that wasn’t “quite right” about me), I couldn’t stand it any longer. I ran out of the bathroom. Fuck what everyone thought. And fuck that bitch. Fuck her for making me feel this way. And no, I don’t adhere to the philosophy that no one can make you feel a certain way. That it’s all some sort of internal projection. I truly believe, instead, that others are capable of inflicting their own internal projections onto you, so that you, in turn, feel like shit. Which I did. And do. But it’s not going to change the way I apply my makeup. My ill-disguising armor. I need it. Besides, it works pretty well so long as no one gets too close to me. Which usually isn’t a problem save for in a rare case like that bathroom debacle.

Having freshly endured it, I now know that public restrooms must be avoided at all costs so that I never allow another judgmental cunt to get so close to me like that again. The only person I ever really allowed to get that close to me, emotionally or physically, was Mom. And even she didn’t accept me as I was without my full coat of paint applied.

Sometimes, I feel like Madeline and Helen from Death Becomes Her, constantly reapplying “paint” to ensure that I’m still “passing.” For what, I don’t know. Not “human,” per se, but rather, a woman who isn’t completely shunned for not looking “okay.” Somewhat decent. Or at least like she tried. And I am trying. All the time. It’s become more of a full-time job than my actual job, which, wouldn’t you know it, is applying makeup to other people at the counter where I work in one of the last up-and-running department stores in our town. Lately though, I haven’t been getting as many customers. I can’t help but think it has less to do with no one visiting department stores anymore and more to do with people not wanting their makeup to look like mine.