Getting ready to go out takes me a really long time. At least half this time is generally spent on my hair, which is something your average white guy will simply never understand. But as your average mutt of a woman with hair that nearly reaches her bubble butt (bubble butt courtesy of my 25 percent Spanish blood…holler!), there is just no way around these excessively long get-ready-times. So unless you want a date who looks like she stuck her finger into an electrical socket five minutes before painting the town red, you’re just going to have to wait the two hours it takes to tame my ‘fro and put on my makeup. Or my “hoface,” as I like to call it. Oh PS, the other hour is usually spent applying my hoface…
Anyway last night my man took me out to sushi. This was after we’d spent the day at some “ultra pool” on The Strip. “Ultra Pool” is just Vegas for “normal pool plus some shitty DJ and maybe a special appearance by a pseudo-celeb like Fergie.” (Oh PS, Fergie was there.) The point is, I had like 20 minutes to get ready for dinner after spending the day in some nasty bucket of warm, leftover drug water that was surely swarming with Hep C (and that’s best case scenario). As you can imagine and hopefully understand, scrubbing my every crevice with antibacterial soap and warm water took precedence over achieving the perfect hair and makeup look for dinner with my boyfriend that night. So I ended up going to sushi with a pristinely cleaned bod, but hair pulled back and exactly zero makeup aside from a single coat of black mascara.
And you know what my man had the audacity to say to me from across the table while face-to-un-made-face with a mouth-full of baked clams?
“You look really pretty tonight, baby.”
And you know what? I freaked the fuck right out.
I tried to keep said freak-out to myself, but as soon as he followed that bit with something along the lines of “I think you look sexy without all that red lipstick or whatever it is you wear to the club or whatever,” I had to excuse myself by pretending I had to pee. Because I didn’t want to lose my shit in front of him. So I walked myself to the ladies’ room, where I slammed the stall door shut and stomped my feet around the Hep C-infested public toilet (I’m a bit of a germiphobe, in case you couldn’t tell) as though I were the three-year-old boy we got sat next to whose parents had just taken away his Batman toy for screaming too loudly in a semi-classy sushi restaurant.
But seriously, I was pissed. Just stomping around in that stall and whatnot, all like, “Oh, so you think I look good leaving my afro-hair as is and saving an hour’s worth of precious life-time by foregoing the application of my everyday hoface? Really? WELL PISS OFF!!”
I was absolutely livid for a solid three minutes, or however long it takes to pretend you’re taking a whiz when you’re actually causing a one-woman scene in a public restroom.
Then I got over it and went back to our table, where I enjoyed some of the best sushi I’d ever eaten with one of my favorite humans on planet earth.
Because even though it wasn’t on my terms, my man had given me something I’d been searching for a long time—a partner who not only accepted, but appreciated me in my natural state. As is. Myself. For who I am and no one more. No “better version” of myself, just Jess in a jumper with her hair in a bun and a swoop of $5 Revlon on her lashes.
It’s not like I’m not going to stop wearing makeup or anything, because the truth of the matter is that I really love makeup. Makeup gives me the chance to transform myself into whatever I feel like being for the night. I’m not saying I’m not comfortable in my own skin. And I realize as a feminist this may sound contradictory to everything I stand for. But that’s just how I feel. I really like makeup!
What I am saying is that I’m going to start wearing far less of it, at least on days I don’t feel like expressing myself as anyone other than…myself. Because if the guy I’m crazy about thinks I look “really pretty” without it, I’d much rather spend the time I’d normally use applying my hoface doing other things I enjoy.
For example, he’s making me dinner tonight, this “awful” guy who pissed me off by telling me I look prettier as myself than I do disguised as some socially determined better version of myself.
I don’t have to be there for another hour. Normally I’d be fidgeting in front of my bathroom mirror, making sure my freshly-washed hair was at an acceptable level of puff, my face the perfect product of a Jessica Alba YouTube Makeup Tutorial. But instead I’m spending the hour reading a few pages from my favorite book, practicing the new chords I learned during my last ukulele lesson, and, most importantly, writing this stupid post for my silly blog.