What Was I Thinking? Vol. 3
no…please no…no…no, no. ow. ow. OW.
I am not a huge fan of makeup. Perhaps it’s because my mother made me wait until I was 12 before I could wear it and by then I’d lost interest, or perhaps it’s because she used to make me up like a prostitute for various ballet, tap and baton recitals because she said it was the only way the audience could see my face. Whatever the reason, I'd rather not wear it.
One of the first weddings I actually remember being in without the aid of pictures was my cousin’s. I went to my aunt’s house early to get ready with the other girls, utterly unaware of what was about to happen. For approximately 25 minutes (which felt like hours) I experienced hell. The kind you don't even tell your kids about because it's too awful.
The family hairdresser arrived to do hair and makeup. Her name was Raquel. I think. I may have forgotten in all the panic and pain I felt immediately after meeting her. First the foundation was applied with short, brusque strokes, almost as if we were stage fighting and I was too slow to move slightly to the side. Next came the lipstick, barely peeking out of the tube so that when it was rubbed across my lips, it dragged like a cheese grater.
The pain not even half of what it was about to be, I began sweating. My legs were so tense I couldn’t move and my knuckles turned shades of pink and white while they clenched the edge of the stool. And then there were the tears. I was able to hold them back but I was hysterical on the inside.
If I had only known that eyeliner could be used as a torture device, I would have claimed an allergy or something and tried to get away with not wearing it. If only. She began to write on my eyelid like it was a box going overseas and all she had to mark it with was an unsharpened pencil. I can only assume that rubbing shards of splintered wood around my open eyes would have felt the same, but I believe it’s a valid assumption.
I have had makeup applied for various other weddings since then, all of which still made me uncomfortable, but I didn't want to end my life.
You know what? That's it. I'm done. No more uncomfortable/painful makeup applications. That’s right friends of mine who choose me, you might want to buy me a ticket to the beach 'cuz this bridesmaid may be looking pasty in your pictures. Deal.
I am not a huge fan of makeup. Perhaps it’s because my mother made me wait until I was 12 before I could wear it and by then I’d lost interest, or perhaps it’s because she used to make me up like a prostitute for various ballet, tap and baton recitals because she said it was the only way the audience could see my face. Whatever the reason, I'd rather not wear it.
One of the first weddings I actually remember being in without the aid of pictures was my cousin’s. I went to my aunt’s house early to get ready with the other girls, utterly unaware of what was about to happen. For approximately 25 minutes (which felt like hours) I experienced hell. The kind you don't even tell your kids about because it's too awful.
The family hairdresser arrived to do hair and makeup. Her name was Raquel. I think. I may have forgotten in all the panic and pain I felt immediately after meeting her. First the foundation was applied with short, brusque strokes, almost as if we were stage fighting and I was too slow to move slightly to the side. Next came the lipstick, barely peeking out of the tube so that when it was rubbed across my lips, it dragged like a cheese grater.
The pain not even half of what it was about to be, I began sweating. My legs were so tense I couldn’t move and my knuckles turned shades of pink and white while they clenched the edge of the stool. And then there were the tears. I was able to hold them back but I was hysterical on the inside.
If I had only known that eyeliner could be used as a torture device, I would have claimed an allergy or something and tried to get away with not wearing it. If only. She began to write on my eyelid like it was a box going overseas and all she had to mark it with was an unsharpened pencil. I can only assume that rubbing shards of splintered wood around my open eyes would have felt the same, but I believe it’s a valid assumption.
I have had makeup applied for various other weddings since then, all of which still made me uncomfortable, but I didn't want to end my life.
You know what? That's it. I'm done. No more uncomfortable/painful makeup applications. That’s right friends of mine who choose me, you might want to buy me a ticket to the beach 'cuz this bridesmaid may be looking pasty in your pictures. Deal.
posted by hapabukbuk at
10:24 AM
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