This piece was originally written and performed for The Narrators’ “DIY or Die”
I was 15 the first time I wore make up. The excitement had been bubbling inside of me all week long, like shaking a can of soda but not knowing how big the explosion would be. I was not allowed to own or wear any make up even though my sisters could, and I was jealous. I wanted a caboodle full Dr Pepper Lip Smackers, Urban Decay’s Heavy Metal eyeliner, a bottle of CK1 and butterfly hairclips. I wanted to look like Rayanne from My So Called Life or at least an extra character somewhere in the background.
I was waiting until Saturday for my teenage makeover. I knew my mom was spending the day shopping and running errands so she wouldn’t be home for a good long while. My sisters were both staying with friends for the weekend and my dad was at work, I had the whole house to myself. An opportunity like that was rare, so my plan was so meticulous you would’ve thought I was a supervillain with a brilliant plan to take over the world. No, I just wanted to try lipstick.
I sat on the couch in the living room, watching whatever schlock was on tv in the mid-90s, before we had 500 channels to choose from and still be bored. Waiting for my family to leave, my mom asked what my plans were for the day. “Probably nothing,” I said, feigning a yawn. “Just some homework then I dunno.”
“Ok,” she said, “we won’t be back for a while, make sure you eat dinner.”
“I will.” I heard the garage door close and as I saw the minivan pull away through the window, I let out a half-excited, half-nervous squeal. I tip-toed upstairs as if there were unseen people still in the house tracking my moves only to report to my parents when they got home. I put on some comfy sweatpants and a loose tshirt and was ready to beautify.
I shared a bathroom with my sisters so I knew where they kept their kits. I opened their makeup drawer, which to me was as scared and dangerous as opening the arc of the covenant. But instead of being met with angry, vengeful biblical spirits, I was greeted to a bounty of lipsticks and eyeshadows and mascaras along with jars and containers of cosmetics that I didn’t even know what they were for.
I dug through the products like an unsupervised child – which I essentially was – until I found some colors I thought were cool. I opened up a palate of Maybelline eyeshadows, picked up the little brush that came with it and just stared at it. I had no idea how to do my own make up. Not a clue. I had seen it done on television and movies and even in my own house hundreds of times, but how do you start? This was 1995, there were no YouTube tutorials, I couldn’t text a friend, this was all guess work. Couldn’t be that hard, right? I had learned how to use a toilet and ride a bike, how was this different?
I could waste time so I just dove in. Have you ever wondered what it would look like if Ronald McDonald and a spirogram had a kid? It was awful. I looked awful. Green eyeshadow with a glittery blue base, black eyeliner so think I could’ve robbed a bank, deep purple lipstick not even hooker would wear. I looked like a toddler had gotten into a box of permanent markers, but nowhere near as cute. I even gave myself a little mole with an eyebrow pencil because the boys at high school thought Cindy Crawford was hot.
I thought I looked damn good though. I struck poses in the mirror, maybe did a little vogueing, of course did the kissy face. Then I heard the garage door open.
The few minutes after that are still kind of a blur. I threw a towel over my head and ran to my bedroom as I heard my mom come in and yell from downstairs “I forgot my purse, can you bring it downstairs please?”
“I can’t right now!” I shouted, trying to mask the panic in my voice. I heard my mom come upstairs and then she knocked on my door.
“Can you come out here for a second please?” she said.
“No, I can’t,” I stammered, desperately trying to scrub the chunks of color off my face.
“Yes,” she said, sternly. “Right now.”
“Please, no. I really can’t. Please don’t make me” I begged. I started to cry.
“Open this door right now”
I opened the door. The mascara was running, the lipstick was smeared, I was bawling, my mom slack jawed.
“Why are you wearing make up?” she finally asked.
“I.. I just wanted to see how it would look.” I managed to get out between sniffles of my ugly cry.
She stared at me. “But... boys don’t wear makeup.”
Every fiber in my being wanted to scream “I’m not a boy” at her. At myself. At life. But the words never came. Even that night when my parents sat me down and asked me flat out if I wanted to be a girl. I denied it, I had already been in the mindset I was going through this, these feelings, alone. I’d been facing this confusion by myself for years. Everything I feared and everything I wanted, so badly, I would have to do myself. I was preparing to be alone or die trying to simply live.
I wish I had seen my parents support that night. I wish I had told them. I wish I had asked for her help doing my makeup. But I do see now, 20 years later, that do-it-yourself or die was never the option, but having others and living was.
