I have had several changes of heart concerning makeup during my life. Around third grade, I started biting my nails with a vengeance. As a passionate nail biter, the only cure to my bad bad habit was polishing my nails black or red. Oddly enough, this cure still works to this day –as the moment I color my nails is the moment they become untouchable by my eager teeth.

In 10th grade, I got called to the principle’s principal’s office. A disciplinary-type of administrator thought I had mascara on, and all my attempts to explain that I had nothing on my eyes were in vain. The administrative goddesses were not convinced my lashes were that long.

Then, of course, came college. The strange personas I adopted during this time were translated in my makeup rituals. At one point I was too practical for makeup, wearing minimalist block-colored clothes. At another I was an exotic dresser, wearing nothing on my face but mascara and black kohl along with fortune-teller type rings and necklaces. At another stage I preferred tight skirts, a black leather jacket and gloves, and the makeup was darker and more piercing. Later on, I took on a more sophisticated-chic look that toned down the makeup to more natural, less obvious selections.

Makeup was an integral part of all these transformations. Often I wondered, does makeup, the idea of covering up your supposed flaws and enhancing your beauty, mesh with the idea that you are a complete, independent woman regardless of male/female attention you may or may not get?

This question and more about the history of makeup (from royal courts to brothels to homes) were treated in this essay in The Smart Set by Paula Marantz Cohen :

All Made Up

Women’s application of makeup is an update of the Narcissus myth. One cannot apply it — or at least not well — without looking in a mirror. The self-reflexive gaze required has elements of the lover’s gaze: Eyes and lips are focal points and demand the most attention and care. Thus, applying makeup is a ritual of self-love, a kind of worship at the shrine of the self, though it can also reflect insecurity and even self-loathing. At its best, it is an exercise in self-critique, and, if you’ll permit me to be grandiose, a path to existential understanding.

…

Of course, one of the paradoxes of makeup is that it adds another level of concern to the one it is designed to appease. Wearing makeup means having two faces — a real face that threatens to be dull and unappealing if not given some assistance, and an artificial face that has to be maintained. If one wears makeup one has makeup worries: Is the foundation even, the eye make up smudged, the lipstick properly applied, etc.? By the same token, checking makeup is a useful rite. It allows for a respite from the hurly burly of life. It says, quite literally, hold on while I straighten up the mask that I’m showing the world. I suspect that men are more violent than women because they don’t have these “time-outs” in which to take stock and put their masks in place. If they wore makeup, they might think twice about going to war where, moreover, the opportunities to put on lip gloss are decidedly curtailed.

For the record, I always forget my lips. I like red lipstick but admittedly it does not look good on me, so they’re always alla naturale. I wonder what that says about me.