Beauty
Out of curiosity, I took a one-day makeup class at a department store. The instructor scrutinized my cosmetics, corrected some of the shades I'd been misusing, and demonstrated half of a fresh makeup on my face. I listened attentively and tried the same on the other side of my face. Two hours later, my eyes appeared twice as big and my lips more plump and pink. As I walked out of the classroom, I thanked the instructor for giving me a class I had always wanted to take — at age thirty-one, I still didn't know how to glue fake eyelashes or use bronzer well enough to make my face look smaller and my nose more pointed.
I felt confident as I glided into a drugstore to purchase the products I needed: baby peach eyeshadow, mineral glitter powder, eyeliners in dark brown and light brown (trust me, they're not the same), a wide fan brush, a fine-tipped brush, and so on. The total came down to a little less than sixty dollars, and I tried not to look surprised when I handed my credit card to the woman at the counter.
At home, however, my mood shifted: in the bright bathroom mirror, I suddenly looked like a clown imitating Cleopatra. A common occasion for such makeup would be a fancy date, but instead, I washed my face and changed into my casual loungewear — a beige sweater and smooth black yoga pants. As I lay in bed, I knew I wanted to return half of the products I'd bought today. The same applied to my future makeup: only half of what I had learned today, half of the product, half of the amount.
There were times in my 20s when I wanted to get double eyelid surgery. I even visited a doctor to consult if that was necessary. With a plain look, he advised getting a nose job first because it was too wide and thus ruined the perfect distance between my eyes. The surgery was cheaper than I thought, and it even came with a discount if I chose to do some "extras." I left the clinic with a smile, but never booked the surgery because everything felt too convenient and indifferent to get what I wanted — an advancement, not an erasure.
My beauty, I learned over time, cannot be measured by any golden standard or the latest trend. What my eyes carried was not just single eyelids — I had the eyes of my grandmother, a history of suffering and resilience bound together. To lose them, I feared, would be to lose myself.
But no, I don't think buying beauty products or getting cosmetic procedures are a waste of time or money; they do fascinate me, and some days I ponder how much I could change with new things. But still, having them in full feels too much to me — for I know the source of my beauty comes from insight, sincerity, heritage, vitality, and character. And for them, I realized, I need myself, sometimes with my rough edges.
