I Don't Feel Pretty

Monday night, at about 11:30, my daughter decided to call in a marker. I have a friend who let his daughter put bows in his hair and make-up on his face. My daughter said, “I bet Daddy wouldn’t let me do that to him.” She knew full well that an approach like that was pure gold. I told her I would sit still for such a thing. Well, last night as I was getting the post-11 pm fades she called my bluff. Now the post-11 pm fades are sort of like the bobs. You know, we all have had them at one point. You try desperately to stay awake, but you can’t. Your head bobs uncontrollably forward. As it does, you wake and jerk your head back….and the drool from the left side of your mouth does spit cartwheels across the room…and you strain most of the muscles in your neck. Well, the fades are the same idea but less active. There’s no flopping and bobbing, just the eyes slowly closing. Sometimes I’ll mumble or grunt in my half sleep and wake myself up. That causes a bit of bobbing and jerking.

Anyway, there I was fading when she got her idea. It had been a difficult day for her and so I knew that I really couldn’t say no. She set up a chair for me in the family room, put a pillow on it and even brought a stool for my feet. That was the peak of my comfort and it was all down hill from there. First she got out what looked to be a tackle box. Instead of lures it was filled with small containers of various shades of powder. She mashed several different colors onto my cheeks, under my chin and across the bridge of my nose. My three-day old beard turned out to be a bit of an impediment, causing her to press harder. I am pretty sure it tore up the applicator pad.

From there she went for the eyes. Eye shadow was first. She deliberated a while about the color to choose. I knew I was an autumn, but didn’t say anything. She picked a nice shade of purple and mashed it all over my eyelids. Through most of this my wife sat by, alternating between amusement and shock. She stayed on the sidelines as long as she could, but then jumped in the game with both feet. She got out a green eyeliner pencil. That sucker hurt as she outlined the very edge of my lower eyelid. It felt like she had taken a flat-head screwdriver and raked it across my eyelid…no, a dull razor blade. There are United Nations conventions devoted to banning this kind of treatment. There are CIA centers in Eastern Europe that employ these tactics on the enemies of freedom and capitalism. At any moment I thought the pencil might slip off the eyelid and plunge right into my eye. It was unnerving. Honestly, I do not know how women do this stuff.

As I was thrown off my game, I started to lose track of what was happening to me. I am sure this is how all good torture sessions go. I think a few more shades of eye shadow were added and maybe some more eyeliner. Then out came the lipstick. This is where I really got lost. The lipstick was kind of sticky and it just felt weird to have that stuff all over my lips. I felt like I couldn’t talk. I didn’t want to spread it around. To make matters worse, my daughter brought out some really gloppy lip gloss. She could tell I was getting uncomfortable and that just inspired her to really apply a thick coat of the stuff. Honestly, it felt like caulk, no bacon grease on my lips. It was thick and viscous and sticky. Not being one to miss out on the fun, my wife chimed in that my daughter could use the lip stick to brighten the color of my cheek bones. Thanks! So, now that nasty lip stick was mashed into my stubble-covered cheeks.

By the time my face was “finished” it felt so caked, gloppy, and just downright uncomfortable that I really didn’t want to move. I was paralyzed by beauty products. My wife kept asking why I was acting so funny and insinuated that I was being both ridiculous and unfair. I was taken so totally outside of my comfort box that I didn’t want to move. Now none of this is because getting your face made up is traditionally something only women do. Nor was it because someone could question which team I play for because I am appearing semi-in-drag. I am married, I have my kids. I’ve done my evolutionary bit and I don’t need to worry about any of that. No, the real problem was that all of that stuff made me feel so uncomfortable. It was like I had mud or chocolate pie or barbeque sauce caked on my face and I was not allowed to wipe it off (or scrape it off with another rib). I was immobilized, like superman when the kryptonite comes out.

With the face “done” my daughter shifted to bling. She got out some plastic beads and tied several brightly-colored ribbons in my hair and around my neck. She heaped them on in layers. I even got a fairy crown with flowers and a tail. The coup de grace (yeah I spelled it right, I just couldn’t figure out how to do the accent mark over the A. Go look it up) was a Minnie Mouse earring that she put into one of my remnant earring holes. I used to sport three earrings in my left ear. I’d probably still have them but my kids pulled them out when they were babies. It seemed safer at the time to leave them out. As I got a bit older, my wife informed me that she thought it looked stupid for “old guys” (Her words, not mine. I think of myself as distinguished.) to wear earrings. She cites Ed Bradley as an example…looking at Ed, I have to agree. It looks silly. Now some people can pull it off, but really only younger men seeking doctorates in philosophy or people in the performing arts.

With the bling on, my daughter flirted with the idea of getting out a skirt. I quietly but firmly resisted that suggestion. Somehow, putting on women’s clothes while having my face made up seemed over the top…unseemly. With that idea shot down, there was only one thing left to do: pose me for pictures. After all, I did say that I would let her take pictures after she made me up. I really thought the pictures would be funny and had no problem with the idea. The thing was, the caked products on my face—my kryptonite—made it hard for me to smile and mug for the camera. I was just too far off my game. My wife again questioned why I was acting so strange. My daughter became worried that I wasn’t enjoying myself. Now, getting make-up from a girl tackle box plastered on my face followed by having heaps of bling piled on me is not something I ever said I would enjoy. Honestly, if I enjoyed doing that sort of thing…well what would you think of me if I ENJOYED that?

So I allowed myself to be posed for pictures. I didn’t think I would look good in make-up, but I had no idea I would look that bad. I had really hoped for a Pig Pen moment…”On the contrary, I didn’t think I looked that good.” That is not the way it played out. I didn’t really feel pretty and my god I do not look pretty. I look like a drag queen in a mug shot after an all-night bender in Atlantic City…no Jersey City…no Wilkes-Barre. Honestly, it’s a bit hard to look at the photos. I put them up here because my friend Kyle (not his real name) was clearly uncomfortable with the level of self-deprecation in some of my earlier posts. This one should pretty much run him off for good.

The hell of it was that after my photo shoot I had to wash all that stuff off. By that time it was well past midnight and I was past ready to go to bed. That horrible, gloppy stuff didn’t want to come off. It would have been easier to get axel grease and tar off my face than that eye shadow. Oh, and I thought the eyeliner hurt going on? That was nothing compared to the pain of scrubbing it off. The stuff wouldn’t come off. I was seriously starting to think I would have to appear in front of my classes the next day with remnant eyeliner on. Again for performance artists and the like that is fine, but I am a professor. I demand and command respect from my students. Something like eyeliner would let them see the human side of me. They’d see the cracks and exploit them. They’d be asking me to give them a few extra days for exams, to stop taking attendance; they’d start hitting me up for smokes like work release prisoners or community servants on landscaping detail. I can’t have that.

Luckily no one except those who actually read this blog will ever see those awful photos…