Real and Made Up

One of my five-year-old daughter’s favorite pastimes is watching me get ready. She insists on picking out what I wear (I’ve had to convince her to choose from three or four outfits I’ve selected in order to keep from looking like I just stepped out of a circus tent) and she loves commenting on my makeup application.

From the time she was two or so, I’ve given her makeup of her own to play with while she stands beside me at the bathroom mirror. She has collected a tin of chapstick, a powder brush, and an empty compact and she uses them all. In addition, I’ll put a little pink lip gloss on her lips and a daub of powder on her nose. Once she’s done, she’ll look at herself in the mirror , purse her lips, smile, and say, “Bee-yoo-ti-ful!”

But yesterday, I began to wonder if the innocent play I’ve allowed her to engage in has been a mistake.

“I really wish I had my own real makeup,” she fretted as I brushed mascara on my lashes.

“Oh, you don’t need real makeup,” I said. “You’re so pretty that makeup would just cover up your natural beauty.”

“But makeup would make me feel pretty, Mommy,” Punky said. “I just don’t feel pretty unless I have on makeup.”

“Well, you shouldn’t feel that way,” I said.

“But you feel that way, Mommy,” Punky said. “You wear makeup.”

“I’m pretty without makeup,” I said hesitantly.

“But you don’t feel pretty without makeup,” she insisted.

I was silent. She was right. I don’t feel pretty without makeup. And every feminist and body image expert can come here and wag their fingers in my face and it won’t make any difference.

My name is Lindsay Ferrier and I don’t feel pretty without makeup.

And I’ve always envied people who do.

I envied the girl in high school with jet black hair, icy green eyes, and fabulous bone structure. She never wore a hint of makeup and she looked fabulous.

I envy the dewy moms I see now who rely only on a cute dress, a sharp haircut and a winning smile to look absolutely stunning.

From a childhood spent on stage, I learned to apply makeup at an early age. The artist amateur artist and actor in me loves the transformation from plain Jane to glamour girl. Beyond that, I grew up among Southern women who wouldn’t dream of leaving the house without first “putting their face on.” And now, neither do I.

It’s funny because I never get manicures or pedicures. My hair is pretty much wash and go.

But I always make time for makeup. Always.

And it had never been an issue until that moment, when I looked down at my daughter’s flawless porcelain complexion and rosebud lips and listened as she told me she didn’t feel pretty without makeup.

I felt the strong, secure mother façade start to crumble. My daughter had called bullshit and I had no response.

The thing about being a mother is that it makes you question everything about yourself. Everything.

Even a simple grooming habit you’ve taken for granted for most of your life.

I hate the insecurity in me that makes me look in the mirror after I’ve woken up in the morning and cringe at what I see.

And I hate that my daughter is picking up on that insecurity and already beginning to make it her own.

She’s five.

And already, I’m failing her.

This post originally appeared on Parents.com.