Barely

My bathroom counter is littered with tubes, bottles, gels, potions, lotions, wands, brushes and god knows how many shades of lip gloss. I haven't seen my eyebrows au natural since 1997. I have beauty tools that look like medieval torture devices (the first time I saw a blackhead extractor I was a little scared. Then I used it and was delighted. It's sick, I know.)

Over the years, I have probably spent more money on makeup than food. And I'm not including pedicures, waxing, skin care, tooth whitening and hair...good God. Do not even get me started on hair care. Hair deserves it's own blog.

I know I am not alone in this pursuit of beauty. The complex relationship of women and makeup has lasted for centuries. Just look at the ancient Egyptians for example. Even in a state of mummification, they had their game faces on.

I say all of this not to win a vapidity contest. Nor am I here to bemoan the double standard society holds to women, that to be considered "beautiful" we must be made up to resemble some creepy baby doll sex toy while men get away with a shave and occasional haircut. And believe me, I am not here to declare my face a makeup-free zone. As usual I am just making an observation.

Recently, I was in my bathroom, surrounded by my arsenal. I had concealed and powdered, and was just moving onto my eyes when something startling crossed my mind: "I am getting made up to go see a man, who I've had sex with many times. Yet he has never seen me without makeup. Damn, the threshold of time it takes for a man to see me naked is brief in comparison to the time it takes him to see my face naked. What does that say about me?"

Of course I'm not saying that once you have sex, the glamour is out the window and my image should be permanently reduced to sweatpants and a scrunchie. I am saying that this particular instance happened at nine o'clock on a Saturday morning and we were going for a run together. Something is wrong with this picture, no?

I push the thought out of my head and continue to line my eyes and define my lashes. He appreciates that I am a woman who takes care of herself, right? I look nice. He doesn't need to see every flaw and blemish! I'm doing this for me, but also for him.

However, If I let myself think brutally honest thoughts, I realize that makeup is literally and figuratively a mask. Its a way of keeping my guard up, and making sure that no one sees my freckles, or the faint scar on my forehead from a childhood accident. It's one aspect of my life I've got full control of. I feel that if the makeup is thick enough, I've done what I can to ensure I'm perceived in a certain way and in that way, remain protected.

And that's really what's at the bottom of my makeup bag (besides the used Q-tips). The fact that I feel detached from my body, and while I'm willing to give that up from time to time, my face is the last frontier, the truest test of how much I trust a man.

It's vanity, it's insecurity. I know that. But it's the truth. My admission that I don't like to be seen without makeup is possibly the most honest thing about me.