This is it, kids. No makeup. And this isn’t the Hollywood version of no makeup, either. This is the real deal. You know how Allure magazine and People’s Most Beautiful People issue both showed us “bare-faced” celebrities last year? I’m sorry, but that’s not what Cindy Crawford looks like without a stitch of makeup. I know some people were just blessed, but come on. You know damn well she had a concealer clause in that contract.
I don’t understand why some women make such a big deal out of it, honestly. I’m now talking about your everywoman, not former supermodels trying to prove that you, too, can be ageless. Just your Average Janes. The ones who refuse to leave the house without digging into their cosmetic bag of tricks first. Why does it matter if the lady taking your coupons at Albertson’s sees you without the benefits of your Great Lash mascara? Who cares if your son’s soccer coach knows you have a little discoloration going on underneath that Laura Mercier foundation? Unless a dude with a camera is going to pop out from behind a bush, snap your photo and sell it to Us Weekly, then, um, get over your damn self.
Here’s the thing about me and makeup. I never thought I looked THAT different without it, but I once had a softball teammate introduce himself to me at a social function and ever since then I haven’t been too sure. You will never find me wearing makeup while doing something in which I know sweat will exude from my pores. Those chicks at the gym with their freshly-applied lipgloss and MAC powdered cheeks? Douche baguettes, I tell you. Oh, and MAC powder plus the elliptical machine equals 1-800-PROACTIV.
But, back to the softball teammate at the social function. I arrived to all our games wearing our team shirt, cutoff sweats, cleats and my game face. My makeupless game face. So, I do that for an entire season with the same group of guys and a handful of chicks. A few months after the season ends, I go to a little gathering where a few of the old teammates happen to be. My hair’s did and my makeup is, too. One of the dudes that I used to regularly shoot the shit with between spits of sunflower seeds walks right up to me, shakes my hand and asks my name. Um, HELLO, I played softball with you, I tell him, annoyed as all hell. He flinches and then says something that makes me see his flinch and raise him a gasp: ”Yo, did you get a makeover?!”
That could only translate to one of two things for me. Either he thought I looked about as unattractive on the field as a line drive from a greasy pot-bellied dude named Hank when you’re least expecting it OR he thought I looked about as attractive at that party as a cold six-pack looks to a greasy pot-bellied dude name Hank when he’s least expecting it. I went with option A.
The bad news: That probably makes me about as secure as the mascara lady at the grocery store or the foundation lady at the kid’s soccer game. The good news: Unless she’s fresh off the set of a daytime talk show, that dude will probably never utter the word makeover to another woman again.