Through My Mother’s Makeup Mirror
By: Emily Bruck
The Lip Gloss Years, shot by Elizabeth Gelber
A little girl sits behind a spread of makeup products, her eyes wide with wonder. The names of the products mean nothing to her. What the mascara tube, blush brush and highlighter stick represent to her, rather, is a set of tools to make a blank canvas into art. To her, this pile of unknowns and mysteries is what will allow her to explore her paint palette, mixing together colors and glitter to make a masterpiece.
That young girl was me (and probably you), when I was lucky enough to stumble into a mother’s makeup bag. Usually, it was a friend’s mom – the kind who rocked a red lipstick and always seemed to glow with the shimmer of her bronze-toned highlighter. When I first opened my mom’s makeup drawer for the first time around age eight, I expected to traverse into the magical land of makeup Narnia.
Only, her drawer was far from full. It was bare, filled only with necessities, simple colors and tones, and minimal sparkle.
I was dumbfounded. Weren’t moms supposed to have magical makeup drawers that made them instantly glamorous? At least that’s what I thought.
We all either knew the girl, were the girl, or envied the girl who came to elementary school with a face of makeup and an “adult” lipstick for reapplication. I was jealous of the girls with the glam, largely because even if I wanted to orchestrate a makeup robbery in my mother’s bathroom, there was nothing flashy enough in there to steal.
The first time I spotted a big girl lipstick in elementary school, I flew off the school bus, sped down my cul-de-sac, and demanded that my mom take me to the store to buy one of my own. My mom and I went to the Marshalls or TJ Maxx’s makeup section and inevitably left the store with a kids' pack of different-flavored lip glosses titled “Juicy Watermelon Pink” or “Cherry Tart Red.”
And to me, that was everything. That little lipgloss was maturity, beauty, and self-expression of my femininity.
Back in simpler times – AKA, a time where any drop of makeup on your face looked cute, even if it was applied like your face was a splatter paint canvas – I found utmost serendipity in the leftovers of my mom’s blush brush. I smeared triple the amount of recommended highlighter on my eyelids and used my mom’s translucent mascara (yes, she was and still is that natural). Fluttering my eyelashes at myself in the mirror, I became a different version of myself, older – I finally looked like a tween, and the school hallway was my runway. And the best part? It might’ve looked ridiculous, but to me, it was confidence.
Now, as a 22-year-old recent college student, makeup maintains a whole different meaning. I find myself morphing into my mom, using makeup for practical reasons, usually, and occasionally for a glitzy night out.
On a night out, it feels like a requirement – because 1) I’m supposed to feel good, even sexy, at the bar and 2) it matches with the quintessential going-out outfit. For an interview or a networking event, a slight touch of makeup makes me look like I know what I’m talking about. For a school day (although I am reluctant to use makeup for class), makeup can make me look like I’m not battling frat flu.
Sometimes makeup is fun, sometimes it’s a pain, and sometimes it doesn’t agree with my skin and I have to wash it all off and start again. And that’s okay.
Makeup used to be carefree and about discovering glamour through a child’s eyes, about playfully exploring both our outer beauty and inner emotions.
My proposal is to take back makeup and reclaim the pleasure of finding self-love and beauty for ourselves. If I want to let my skin breathe, I go bare-faced and feel confident while doing so. When I want to glam up, I spend an hour on my makeup because I want to.
Makeup is something I choose, not something I need. And embracing a minimalist makeup collection – like my mom, who is beautiful with or without her simple-toned blush – is totally acceptable – it’s about what you make of it.
My nine-year-old self would be proud. And honestly, so am I.
