Yesterday I ran into the mom of an old friend from high school, and the whole time we were talking I was thinking, Oh, God, I don’t have any makeup on.
Last week I almost didn’t come down to say hi to my husband’s aunt and uncle, visiting from California, because I didn’t have makeup on.
I have used the excuse of no makeup to not go on a date with my husband, to stay home from church, to hide in the back of an elementary school cafeteria while my boy is singing Christmas songs.
I have never taken family pictures without makeup.
We women learn, at a very young age, that we are born with a deep-down flaw that disqualifies us from claiming the title “Beautiful.” A flaw we must hide. A flaw we must fix.
Fortunately, we can buy the fix—makeup or clothes or push-up bras or stomach-flattening undershirts or jewelry or this one pair of shoes or that brand of shampoo or a specific seven-blade razor or (fill in the blank).
The thing is, though, that flaw is an illusion. It’s simply not true. We were born with no flaw or lack or missing beauty piece.
We were ALL born beautiful.
I’m tired of believing the lie that I cannot be beautiful without mascara and eyeliner or that moisturizing foundation or the light dusting of powder and blush. I’m tired of letting a ridiculous definition of beauty define who I am or should be as a woman.
So here is my bare face. It hasn’t been washed since last night, because I didn’t have time to shower today. I also didn’t comb my hair before I pulled it back into the ponytail. And I need to go brush my teeth.
The point of this bare-faced picture?
Screw society’s definition of beauty. I’m going to make my own.
