“You’re so ugly!” a ninth-grade classmate yelled as we passed
in the hallway. I shifted my gaze to avoid making eye contact.
“Hey, ugly girl!” he shouted, louder this time. I bit my lip hard,
hoping the piercing pain would stop the tears from crashing
down my face. The tears held back just long enough for me to
get onto the school bus that afternoon.
I’d recently moved from a diverse community in Queens, New
York, to a predominantly white neighborhood on Long Island.
In Queens, I could walk down the street and find hundreds
of girls who looked like me. On Long Island, I didn’t blend in
so easily. I was a dark-skinned girl with a wide nose and full
lips, surrounded by girls with light, porcelain skin, and petite
noses.
Something broke in me that day. I was no longer an optimistic
young girl. I was a shattered windshield, cracking with each
new insult.
A year later, I found the antidote to my unattractiveness:
makeup. Our relationship started out innocently with a bump
of mascara to plump my eyelashes and a smidge of eyeliner
to spruce up my eyes. Over time, I progressed to heavy63
amounts of foundation to camouflage my acne-prone skin. By
sixteen, I wore so much makeup I could no longer recognize
my reflection in the mirror. And I was hooked.
When I was a little girl, I secretly dreamed I’d inherit my
mother’s looks. She had long, straight hair, medium-brown
skin, and a toned frame. Men’s eyes would follow her down
the street when she walked me to the bus stop.
My mother worked on her beauty like a part-time job, getting
up early to apply her makeup in front of her large vanity
surrounded by fluorescent lights. She never left the house
without a full face of makeup, and the only time I saw her at
home without lipstick was when she was ill.
During my teens, makeup became our secret language, a
lighthouse to bring us together when the emotional distance
between us lengthened. But as I got older, it became a
measuring stick for which there was no end. Visits home
began to feel like I was a contestant at a beauty contest, as
my mom constantly critiqued my appearance. ”Where’s your
lipstick?” my mother would say if it had rubbed off after a
meal. “Your eyes look weak. Go put some more mascara on.”
When I started to date, my relationship with makeup
became even more complicated. The chase of a well-
placed compliment became more alluring than a genuine
connection. Women around me used their beauty as currency
to get male adoration and expensive gifts. A friend at work
would strut down the office hallway like she was on the
runway at New York Fashion Week to show me the latest
designer handbag her boyfriend had gifted her.
My addiction to covering up my imperfections went beyondmy face. I tucked, sucked in, and manipulated my body,
making sure I appeared as the world wanted me to be: a
walking Instagram filter. I wore lace push-up bras and jeans so
small I had to hop around on the floor to squeeze into them.
Getting ready for a date filled me with equal parts dread and
anticipation. Will my date like me? Will he find me attractive?
I’d stand in front of a full-length mirror in my bra and panties
and examine my body, pinching folds of fat between my
fingertips like a plastic surgeon about to perform surgery.
I’d see mounds of flesh staring back at me, voluminous and
meaty, like an extra thick hamburger, and sigh in disgust.
Despite spending countless hours in the gym, there was still
more work to be done.
After I’d applied generous dabs of foundation and a streak
of shimmer across my lids, I’d exhale in relief. Everything I
hated about my appearance – the deep lines on my forehead,
sunken eyes, and uneven skin – disappeared. Makeup made
me an expert in keeping the ugly parts of myself hidden.
During the pandemic, I became suspicious of makeup’s role
in my life. Multiple family members died unexpectedly. I can
still hear my cousin hollering in grief on the other end of the
phone after she told me our 45-year-old cousin died of breast
cancer.
A made-up face hadn’t protected me from the world’s cruelty.
I’d still experienced discrimination and the loss of loved ones.
One day, my body, too, will succumb to death’s grip. One day,
I won’t have the option to display my authentic self. Faced
with my mortality, I realized I needed to make peace with my
reflection.
***65
I started my reformation with small acts of bravery. I stopped
wearing lipstick to the gym and made late-night runs to the
grocery store with only my eyebrows filled in. The first time
I left the house without a full face of makeup, I felt shaky.
The fragility of life had forced me to rip off my armor, and
I was terrified of what I would find. I was afraid that the
teenage girl whom her classmates found repulsive still lurked
underneath.
Going out in public barefaced forced me to make amends
with my body. Rather than a vessel of shame for not meeting
societal standards, I now view my body as a vehicle for
navigating the world and showing up more fully. My thick
thighs helped me complete my first half marathon, my knees
held me up when my dad told me he was diagnosed with
prostate cancer, and my feet carried me away from several
toxic relationships.
Though my relationship with makeup has evolved, I’ll never
be completely free of it – nor do I want to be. I still appreciate
a beat face as a form of creative expression. But I now know
that the superpowers I imagined makeup possessed are
already inside me. A few months ago, a man I was dating told
me I was more beautiful without makeup. I believed him
Published in The B’K Volume 15 Issue 4.
Tasha Bovain 