Lipstick and dust

I don’t wear make-up. That’s reserved for special occasions (like the rare wedding or graduation). I tell people it’s because I have really sensitive skin and I break-out like a teenager in those Oxy ads from the 90s. But the truth is I’m just too lazy to paint my face in the morning, as it is, brushing my hair is an inconvenience.

There is that one day, when my girly hormones overcome the tomboy in me and all I want is to feel pretty. I like to have my hair done, flowing down my shoulders, with a flower to accessorise it. Speaking of accessories, a bracelet or a necklace makes me feel delicate and special. Heels make me walk tall and give me that “Man, I feel like a woman,” confidence Shania Twain sings about. And the wind against my legs when I wear a dress makes me feel a little like Marilyn Monroe doing a photo-shoot and a little like a child running through a field of daffodils.

I don’t dress up often (the blazer I throw on for work doesn’t count) but when I do, I relish in it. Although the attention is pleasing, it’s not entirely about the compliments you get from others, or the inquisitive questions about why you made such an effort. It’s the “My goodness, you’re beautiful,” moment when you look in the mirror. When you are completely content and happy with yourself. Nothing anyone else says can compete with how you can surprise yourself when you realise the “Something lovely to look at,” is you.

I can’t speak for men, but I can confidently say that all women like to feel beautiful. Once, on our way back home from a trip, we passed through an informal settlement. Driving past the shanty houses, I saw a young woman, probably around 18 years of age. She was wearing stilettos, a black jumpsuit, her hair was styled up and I believe she was wearing make-up. She walked over to a bin and struck a pose. Her friend, holding a mobile phone, held it up to take the picture. I remember thinking that it was a complete spectacle to dress up and then do a photo-shoot in the dust. And then I considered if it had been me, an 18 year old posing for that picture. She’s just a girl, who wants to feel beautiful - I have those days too.

So I read the first chapter of Rob Bell’s book Sex God (it’s not an oxymoron, apparently it’s about sexuality and God… go figure). It talks about how in 1945 a large quantity of lipstick was delivered to the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, which the female prisoners started wearing. In a way, the scarlet on their lips just restored some of their humanity. Wearing lipstick made them feel like individuals again, and not just numbers in a system. Taking care of their appearance made them feel human.

Maybe that’s why being beautiful is such a big deal. It’s not necessarily superficial (as I mistakenly thought in the past). For some, it can be a revelation of your worth as a human being.

Now here’s the part that just throws everything in a tailspin: I had professional pictures taken recently and had the privilege of getting my make-up done by a professional make-up artist. If my pores could speak- they would say they loved how the Mac powder didn’t clog them up. My lips would say that they enjoyed being pink for a change. My cheeks would say that the blush made them feel like they were a real feature on my face. My nose would be happy to finally be contoured. My eyebrows would be pleased to be shaped. My eyes would be glad that they were finally complemented with the right shade of brown.

And although it was nice to feel like a supermodel for 10 minutes, I think the girl who goes home and knows she is beautiful without all that make-up is the happiest one of them all. She knows her worth, outside of her beauty. She knows the dusty parts of her that aren’t great to look at, and still feels complete. She knows that God makes beautiful things out of the dust.