The Make-up Mask

Possums,

SO… I’ve been thinking about something. Something I feel feminazi about. (Ruh roh? Do I sense KardashianGate #2 arising?)

And this is it: Why the fuck is it that only women have to wear makeup in order to look “beautiful”? But blokes? Blokes are totally fine as they are. They don’t have to cover their face with a chemical-laden mask.

Why is it we’re not enough, just as we are, just as we were born? Because we are. We are. We are.

Just as men are.

Now – to be clear – if you love makeup – I am not raging against you. Good for you babe. Whatever rocks your boat. I’m not judging you.

But I AM deeply questioning the fact that our society teaches us + pushes us into painting a mask on ourselves. That THAT is what it takes to be beautiful.

And our daughters know this more than ever.

Eating disorders happening earlier than ever. Girls wearing makeup + clothes to look “pretty” because they know that this culture values that above all else. Girls having sex earlier than ever, because they believe that that’s how they gain love + approval + acceptance. Racing around, looking for love in all the wrong places, not knowing that all the love they need is inside them. That’s where to turn to, again + again.

I’ve shared these images before, but the information in them (from a lecture I went to by Steve Biddulph) is so damn important, I’m sharing them again. Until it sinks in. Sinks in for me. Sinks in for you. Sinks in for all of us. And we get mad enough to demand things change. Because we’re the only ones who will and must.

And I mean, really, how the fuck can we teach them any different, if we don’t actually believe that + know that + show that ourselves.

So the work of healing our teenage girls must begin with healing ourselves too.

And full disclosure here: I do wear makeup a couple of times a year, and I get my invisible Scandinavian eyebrows tinted. I used to wear it a lot more, but my Give A Fuck meter lowers every.single.year.

And I question it more + more.

Like, I think about, how if I do a speaking gig, there’s this subliminal expectation that I’ll have glossy hair + glossy face (+ shimmery wet legs ala Amy Schumer). But if my COO Grant was doing that gig with me, his required grooming regime would be about 1/10th in comparison (he may coincide his weekly shave with that day, and attempt to wear a shirt with a collar, but hey – dudes in tech don’t even need to do that. Grab a hoodie + sneakers + you’re good to go.)

But apparently, in order to gain the same level of respect or “authority” I need to look fake + glossy + like a showpony?
Fuck that. I am not swallowing that. That is C-R-A-P.

Funnily enough, at a speaking gig I did do – I was completely ignored by the CEO of the company who hired me because I turned up in my non-speaking clothes so I could set my booth up. I got ignored TWICE actually – until I explained to her who I was. Her eyebrows nearly hit the roof, and the look on her face was clear. And I quickly let her know that I was just wearing my booth-setting-up clothes, and that I did have an “outfit” I would be changing into.

Because fuck me, if my outfit isn’t more important that what’s in my head.

I’m not a glossy Arabian showpony. I’m a workhorse. I’m a giant, clumsy, goofy Clydesdale.

And I am good enough as I am.

Without the tart-up. Without the mask. Without anything but what I am. My cells. My skin. My soul. My mind.

And so are you.

Big love,
Ragey Mama Bear

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