Femme and Fatale

I developed an allergy to make up in late 2020 after ten years of wearing it. To this day I'm not sure what caused it. What I do know is that I cannot wear make up without getting an eczema like rash across my eyes. A not-cool and irritable raccoon mask.

Everyone always comments on my eyes. They ask me if I'm sleeping enough, or if I'm sick. I have my mother's Italian face, deep set and shadowed eyes, illuminated by my father's pale skin. I often joke that I look like what would happen if Steve Buscemi had a secret love affair with a loaf of white bread. (Me? Spackling over my deep insecurity with humor? Of course not).

My mother never wore make up, her golden skin not needing any alterations, and so I was left to my own fumbling. I was in a boxing ring with my own ineptitude as my opponent. My first bout was with white eye shadow I gently patted under the dark circles that made it look like I put my face into a vat of flour, the next a cream that allegedly corrected blemishes but made me orange. I was determined to come up with something that would stop the questions, something that would hide what I considered an massive defect in the center of my face.

By my late twenties I had a system, a simple face I could paint on that allowed me to walking through the world with some modicum of confidence. I had my clutch of brushes, a small box of foundation and favorite mascara, and I was ready to go. Until the first tender patch hit. I remember feeling a burning sensation on the puffy part of my hooded eye lid, peering into the mirror and noticing it was red but thinking I must have scrubbed it too hard. The following evening is when flaking started.

I resisted the idea it was my make up--frantically switching face washes and eye creams. People were used to seeing my eyes toned down, the dark circles colored to a normal shade. My eyes continued to burn and scab and peel to a point where even make up couldn't hide it, if anything making it more monstrous--a bumpy rash burbling up from pale powder.

Inevitably, I had to face the truth that the source was in fact my beloved make up. I tried a different kind to no avail. The reality was this: anything that touched my eyes that wasn't super sensitive eye cream made it explode into a painful reaction.

My solution was to get really into skin care, researching how to make my face the most it could be without foundation, and leaning into my dark-eye-circle-death-goddess vibes. The first part was fun, the second quite a process. I’d stare at my face in the mirror, try to become intimately familiar with every line, the shades of brown that kaleidoscope around my deep set eyes.

Over time I no longer look like a stranger to myself. I can’t describe the process as anything but the daily practice of acceptance. This was my face, this was who I am. I am someone with Italian ancestry and deep set eyes. Someone who worked long hard hours in difficult jobs because I cared about people and wanted to help them and suffered from lack of sleep for it. Someone who developed stress induced adult acne at twenty six and never fully got their face back to the clear skin it once was in my early twenties. I am all of that but I am more as well.

I’m someone who surrounds myself with any crafting project that catches my fancy, building little creations for my friends. I’m someone with a menagerie of rescue pets that I care for and spoil deeply. I’m the person who writes books and knows how to make a perfect cup of tea. Someone who enjoys reading and taking long walks in the woods by my home.

Sometimes it feels silly to have tied so much to my physical appearance. But in the process of stripping it down I feel a sense of release. There was so much tied to looking pretty, being presentable, a palatable face. I do not have the luxury of being naturally pretty. I was scared of that for a long time. It’s not as scary anymore. I grew up surrounded by images and the constant message —-you are only valuable to the degree you are attractive, you only exist when you are young, when you grow old no one will care about you. I figured out quickly I am not conventionally attractive, being left behind when middle school blossomed into a season of notes passing and awkward Valentine’s Day flowers. Jokes slinging across the classroom about the coloration around my eyes, comparing me to the killer ghost in the movie The Ring, a scepter that both haunted the halls and the collective imagination of my classmates.

I didn’t get hit on by strangers until I started wearing make up. It was the era of thick winged eye liner that was horribly unfit for hooded eyes but i tried anyway, sculpting a thick line of black on my upper eye lid and making my skin color uniform and smooth under a layer of foundation. It was exhilarating, having my blemishes not be the first thing someone comments about me.

We trade youth for wisdom, the lines on our face earned with every lived lesson as we age. I used to joke that I wished I had the knowledge I do now when I was twenty so I could be young and emotionally mature but that's the point. We give the world our experience and it takes its measure of skin. Being unable to wear make up forced me to confront both the terror I had of my own imperfections, but also the fear around growing old. Of skin that hangs and creases permanently. I came to accept I cannot be terrified of this.

A few months after not wearing make up someone came into my work and told me I looked tired and asked if everything was okay.

“No, that’s just my face,” I smile. I mean it. He looks embarrassed. I am not.