24.
When I first began to use makeup, I was 24 years old. Before, I had ocasionally put on some mascara and a little glitter in the form of eyeshadow, leftovers from my foray into a pharmacy some years ago, items which should have been tossed health reasons. They say you should replace your brushes and applicators regularly, or at least clean them. But I didn't use them often enough to worry about it. All I learned I gleaned from magazines and from a friend who had done my makeup for prom and other school dances. Despite my Mom's suggestions I did not use blush.
15.
At 15 my mother finally gave me permission to buy, to wear makeup and nail polish. Nevermind that I had been watching my classmates since I was 12, eyeing thier painted nails and glittery eyelids with envy. I had wanted to paint myself too, to have shiny lip gloss instead of lip balm and to put glitter around my eyes and see my sparkling reflection, instead of my pale skin and plain brown eyes staring back. But it was not allowed. By the time I was finally permitted to wear makeup I had lost interest, and all of the gifts of eyeshadow and little collections of nail polish I received that year were kept rotting in a small green chest with a cheap mirror attached to the interior of the lid. The cotton balls shriveled and the q-tips disintegrated waiting to be used, while I fought pimples with drying solutions and various kinds of facewash.
21.
This year I starting using a concealer stick given to me by a high school friend in an effort to conceal my acne. It didn't occur to me to buy one in my own skin tone, because my friend was more pale and not olive like me. I applied the chalky stick on my forehead and prayed that no one would look too closely at my mismatched tone or see the acne it could not quite hide. Makeup was still so foreign. But my legs I shaved religiously twice a week.
33.
Now my makeup had become a ritual, a routine. Not even my 2 year old could keep me from applying the fine layer of concealer (matching, this time) to my under-eye circles and the slight red spots threatening to bloom into pimples. Then there was the eyelash curler, the eyeliner, the mascara. It was all so simple, it took 10 minutes, and when I noticed my reflection in the mirror I looked natural only better. My husband never commented on my routine, but he watched me at night cleaning my face with a babywipe, scrubbing ever so gently at the mascara clinging to my eyelashes. He would kiss me goodnight even without my "face" on.
25.
The year I stayed home and got a waitressing job I wore lots of foundation, inexpertly applied. My Dad would look at me as I prepared to leave and say "looks like you've got the pancake on." I wondered if maybe he could say something encouraging instead, like "you look nice" or "pretty" or at least something kind. After many styles I settled on gold and browns for eyeshadow and brown for eyeliner, attempting to look as natural as possible. A close friend of mine liked to wear more intense colors, purples and blues that usually matched her jewelry, and I decided that I would try to look as much like myself as I could, that no one wanted to see me looking like a clown. My collection of brown eyeliners forced me to buy another makeup bag and question just how many of them I actually needed...the liquid eyeliner for special days, the waterproof for work, the subtle sparkle for every day, the chrome finish just to mix it up...
38.
Over time people change, and our faces do too. I became uncomfortably aware of my fine lines, lines that I had been able to hide with my simple routine and daily moirturizer, but were starting to appear as more than mere creases. I consulted my grandmother and my close friends, searching for some rejuvenating routine that would help to retain elasticity and diminish or soften the wrinkles. Before bed every night I applied night cremes, only to rise in the morning and wash my face and then apply a day creme.
50.
Part of my birthday gift was a spa day, during which I went to a spa to be pampered and got a facial and micro scrub. Despite my best efforts the lines had only increased and grown deeper. I had settled into a new routine of moisturizing and applying only the thinest layer of concealer and some mascara, not bothering with eyeliner that was hidden now by my drooping eyelids. My husband faced his lines with more grace and calm, altering his shaving routine slightly to accomodate the changed geography of his face, and asking me with only a hint of self-conciousness if his graying temples made him look "distinguished." With my hands on his still firm and straight shoulders I smiled and told him that he was as handsome of a husband as I could have hoped for. In response he smiled happily and kissed my cheek and told me that he was thankful that I had never dyed my hair. We were silvering together, while I still tried my best to keep my face from betraying me.
43.
Day and night I moisturized. When I came out of the shower I slathered my face, neck and chest with lotion that claimed to "tighten and heal" skin with vitamins and promised results after 2 weeks. I began to obsess over anti-aging products, and became aware of my hair which had started to grow lighter instead of dark and rich and brown...when I went out with my son I was grateful that I had not yet been mistaken for grandma. I dreaded that moment, that era...being an "old lady" seemed a frightening turn.
57.
No longer does concealer play into my daily routine, as it did for so many years. Instead the lessons of my 40s and constant mointurizing are part of my ritual, and for decoration I use a simple mascara. The nights that my husband and I go out, or when we visit with friends or go to a movie I use a little lipstick, but not much else. My hair is short, and sometimes I miss my long waves. But gray is best kept to a minimum.
61.
Mascara alone has remained my constant companion. But with a more daring hairstyle another product has found it's way into my life...hair gel. A faux hawk would not be quite the same without it, much to my husband's delight. We share the same product, he to slick down and me to spike up. I cannot remember the last time I bought eyeliner.
69.
Moisture has saved me from the deep grooves of old age, though I will grow older still. My lines, once so fine, have become a map of past smiles and moments of laughter that have marked my face. My neck and chin have started to sag, despite my thin weight there seems to something hanging there. My arms, once so strong from lifting children and dishes and heavy pots, have grown soft but are not sagging yet, thanks to simple yoga that eases my back. My husband goes through the same cycle of positions with me every morning and every evening, and we smile at each other with reflecting roadmaps of wrinkles. My faux hawk stopped being funny and instead became fussy. So now I am GI Jane.
75.
Every morning I wash my face and use the same day creme, a gentle natural formula that my grand daughter found for me at her all natural store. My husband and I still manage to do our basic yoga every day, though sometimes the aches are too much and we cannot stretch as much as we'd like. Last month I went to a friend's funeral, and all I wore was my lipstick, which should probably be replaced after so many years. My lips felt tacky, gummy after just a little while. But my mask is not as important as it was at 15, 25, 33. At the funeral I saw women my age with caked faces, lines that could not be smoothed with any amount of makeup, eyeshadow so thick it seemed like paste. In her casket my beloved friend seemed to have undergone plastic surgery, her face smooth and her serene expression airbrushed. I felt strangely embarassed for her, and as my husband gently took my hand and tugged me away I looked at the beloved lines of his face and the frailness of his once firm shoulders and understood that now, at this age, there was no longer any mask or anything that I could hide behind.
I simply looked like myself, more than I ever had before. And it made me smile.
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