There’s a reason women call make-up war paint. Its application is part of the time-honoured ritual necessary for going into battle. Daily, we step out the door and fight for our personal space on the road, the bus, the subway, or the sidewalk. Daily, we fight to break down stereotypes and break through glass ceilings. Daily, we fight to keep our ass high, and our boobs higher.
For years, I would not leave the house without it. And if I was heading into a particularly stressful situation, my makeup would be that much more. More volume. More precise. More camouflage. The face I presented to the world from Monday to Friday was different than the one that woke up with pillow creases on Saturday morning.
And then I moved to a small town, where the living was easy. Was able to cut down on the money making, and increase the fun stuff. No more rushing every morning. No more fighting. And my face started to lose its sharp edges. Its artificial definition. It began to soften. It learned how to relaxxxxx.
Pretty soon, my hair jumped on the bandwagon. Long covered streaks of silver started to peak through. Silver, just like my mama’s. Then all the de-liners, and anti-agers hit the garbage, and were replaced with words I could pronounce, like shea and cocoa. Living became as natural as breathing. Deep, long breaths that soothe the soul. Breaths that led me to remember who I am. Halleluiah.