The complex art of face painting is still foreign to me. And when I refer to a painting of the face, I’m just fancifying the act of applying makeup. General, every day, convenient store selling makeup that every woman seems to have in stock. And please don’t mistake my tone for sarcasm or disdain. I think makeup, when applied correctly, can enhance features. I think it may enhance a woman’s self-confidence. It can reinvent a person in the span of minutes (again, when you are better versed in application) from a softly lit clean-faced office worker to a no-holes-barred, vixen of the night club rat, with the right smear of eyeliner. Better yet, there appears to be no rules in making up. People lay it on thick, or keep it quiet. The only similarity I find amongst the made up is that they are, in fact, made up.
This has become something of a constant in my life, but I’d sooner skip the sociological implications and focus on my present predicament; namely that I feel exposed when not concealed.
This makes perfect sense when you strip it of literal and figurative meaning. We all in some sense chose to hide in working ways so as to conceal ourselves. The what and the way is specific and privy to the hider, but in owning up to my own insecurities I’ll admit that I slather on the makeup because I’ve convinced myself that I need it. That without it I’m helpless, lost, subject to the ridicule we all met as children and forever fear as adults.
This is a complex problem with seemingly simple solutions: stop hiding. Love who you are. Be the change you wish to see in the world. (More …)