The other day my friend wore makeup for the first time that I’ve seen. She’s over 60. It looked good. She looked professional and even a bit younger. I noticed that, but it didn’t make me want to wear makeup, something I’ve never done. Oh, I bought some at the drugstore when I was a teenager, and tried it on in the bathroom. No idea why. I was never going to wear it in public. Other people say they “never” wear makeup and they mean only for special occasions. They don’t mean NEVER, like with me. I didn’t have any. I didn’t have a makeup bag or a purse to put it into. I still keep my wallet in my pocket, like a guy.
And I never had that experience that probably 99% of girls did, that is pretty much a stereotype of being a teenage female: doing makeovers on each other. Never did it. I couldn’t even tell you if my friends wore makeup. Thinking back, I guess they did, at least sometimes. And I never wanted to. I was adamant. I don’t remember talking about them with it, but if I did, it was probably that I’m not interested. I tend to be blunt, like that.
And just this week my point of view changed. I saw a makeup look that I could never achieve, and yet it made me want to try and copy it. It was my favourite fusion bellydancer, who I apparently have not posted about before. Towards the end of one of his wild performances, he turned to the camera and paused, looking pleased with himself. The heavy black painted shadows around his eyes gave an exotic drama. I just wanted to be like him. Of course it would be nice to be 30 years younger and male, too.
See, I could never get into female gender roles, and the female body isn’t that great either with its extra floppy bits. Not as strong as a male, generally. Would have been nice to be a guy and have more social privileges. And to top it off, be a bellydancing male with long hair who can be not-macho (I wouldn’t call it feminine) and still be male. Would have been perfect and pretty much the opposite of what I was, someone cut off from my body and perfectly avoidant about gender roles.
We should be like crows, with no difference between the species. Birds like that mate for life, like me. Different from birds that have special breeding plumage so they can play the mating game each season. I don’t want to play! I don’t know how I flirt. I know how to commit, forever. And it didn’t work, so I’m done with that. I tried and failed. I’m like a crow, but a crow alone.
But anyway, I’m going to bring up the makeup topic with my friend or friends at some point. Maybe the makeover session can still happen. Surely I can’t do this on my own. I can paint a wall or a painting, but not my face. No clue on that. I haven’t been paying attention to how that’s done. I know what I don’t want – thick cakey layers that are going to wipe off on my clothes. In fact, this probably won’t work because, after all, I’m not girly. I’m good with a power drill or an axe or a shovel, not a makeup kit.