On Make Up and the OH-REALLY Face

This morning, I woke up to two things:

1) A thumping head cold; and
2) A text message from Clementine Kemp suggesting breakfast.

Lying in bed, texting Clem and making Chewbacca noises through my snotty sinuses, it occurred to me that I was in one of those dangerous, but potentially liberating, not-giving-a-shit moods that often accompany illness and burn out.

The upshot of this mood? I decided to face the world without my face.

You see, make up is a bit of a vexed issue. On one hand, I love playing with it, and the ritual of getting ready. While it is fun getting ready with a pack of girlfriends, as a true introvert, it’s my solo getting ready that I treasure. There is something potent, and, I think, powerful, about that little chunk of time contemplating the mirror. Whether it’s putting on a lick of lippie while listening to Let’s Dance by David Bowie (my old pre-lecture routine), checking for foundation tide marks before a job interview, or tidying up eye make up that’s gone awry between meetings, letting myself be absorbed in the simple acts of powdering, brushing, smoothing and tweaking fortifies me for the challenge ahead. On a more practical level, I love that all it takes is two minutes and three Clinique products (foundation; blush; mascara) to make me look like I’m well rested and fresh, when the reality is that I haven’t slept for longer than 3 hours at a stretch all week.

On the other hand, I resent make up. I resent that I don’t feel or look professional without something on my face. I resent that people, often meaning well, claim to prefer the ‘no make-up’ look, but then pass comment on women with dark under eye circles, or an unsightly spot, because we’ve been socialised to believe that women roll out of bed with an even skin tone, glowing cheeks, glossy lips, and full, dark eyelashes (FYI – they don’t). I resent that women are taught by the beauty industry to look for, and spend their money ‘correcting’, ‘faults’ in their appearance, least someone take offense at their pores.

So, yes, if I was to describe my relationship with make up in Facebook terms, It’s Complicated.

Which is why, this morning, I threw my make up into the too hard basket and went out for breakfast bare faced. I should contextualise this by saying that the circumstances of this morning meant ditching my make up wasn’t a monumental act of bravery. Clementine, like most of my old friends, has seen me without my make up on. We were going to a quiet suburban café, early on a long weekend Saturday, and were unlikely to be seen my many people. And, I didn’t have any major break outs or under eye circles this morning, so I felt like I looked better than normal when I woke up, despite the snot and Chewbacca sound effects. Had I been particularly spotty or dark under the eyes, meeting a less understanding friend, or having breakfast somewhere less low key, I probably would have put some make up on before leaving the house, in spite of not feeling particularly inspired to do so.

While at breakfast, it occurred to me that sometimes, wearing make up or not doesn’t really matter, because nobody, in the normal run of social life, is looking that closely at your face. A little theory that sociologists call civil inattention applies here: people are absorbed in their own business, and even if you did have a particularly amazing pair of bags under your eyes, they probably wouldn’t a) notice or b) say anything about it.

Unless, of course, you encounter a rude person, who decides that your appearance is their business to comment on. In those instances, given their ignorance of the rules of social interaction, you have every right to subtly reprimand them by employing what I like to call OH-REALLY face. (My OH-REALLY face involves raised eyebrows, slightly pursed lips, and flared nostrils. Yours is probably a little different. Isn't variety wonderful?) It’s not a bona-fide sociological theory just yet, but, nine times out of ten, I’ve found it pretty effective in reminding a rude person how to behave in social situations, regardless of whether said OH-REALLY face is made up or not.

You can add Chewbacca noises to your OH-REALLY face if you like. That, however, may push you into Garfinkelian Breaching Experiment territory (SOCY1004 shout out). I guess it all just depends on how many shits you feel like giving before you’ve had your eggs and coffee, really.

Cherry Lips

Songs get stuck in heads for particular reasons. These reasons may not be immediately apparent: I am still pondering why Love Shack by the B52’s is my head’s default stuck setting (suggested reasons are, of course, welcomed). But, there is always a reason.

This week’s sticky song – Loon Lake’s Cherry Lips – was stuck in my head for a particularly good reason.

It was a sign that I needed to wear red lips, after a two year hiatus.

And, on Tuesday night, as I joined a couple of lovely friends for Laksa at our local noodle house, I put my cherry on my lips. It felt exactly right.

The thing about a red lip is that it can’t be forced. If you try to force it, you’ll be wiping it off with a tissue in the car before you’ve driven two blocks. And we all know, ladies and gentlemen, that red lipstick brands like nothing else. Everyone will know you tried, and failed, at a red lip, by the tell tale pink stains around your mouth. For shame.

When the mood is right, though, nothing short of big, red, full and smiling-with-a-big-toothsome-grin will do. We could discuss at length, here, the socio-political-aesthetic assumptions about red lips, and, indeed, about the colour red – both potent symbols.

But we’re not going to discuss it, because, for me, a red lip has always been nothing more or less than a mood that comes over me, an impulse, indeed, an inspiration. It defies categorisation. A red lip just is.

You can consult, if you like, with Marie Claire, Cleo and Cosmo for application tips. At the end of the day, though, it’s make up, not rocket science or world peace. You just need to open the tube, and apply.

So, put your cherry on your lips, as Loon Lake would say, and get yourself to that dinner, or those drinks, that day at the office, or that just-because thing. And, to paraphrase another song that gets stuck in my head – this time Garbage’s Cherry Lips:

Go, baby, go go.