I remember the first time my mom took me to buy make-up. Of course I already owned some, hand-me-downs from my step-sister and gifts from friends, but I only wore it when I was staying with friends on the weekends. In 7th grade, plenty of girls were starting to wear make-up, but I couldn't help feeling like I was expected not to jump on board yet. Its not like my family is Amish or anything (no, just Southern Baptist), but the Conservative blood had not yet been flushed from my body. My goals in life included: 1. Making my family proud and 2. Not pissing off my family. And maybe: 3. Make my family think I'm perfect. Okay, just go ahead and switch 1 and 3 in priority.

Anyways, when my mom finally decided that maybe I was old enough to wear make-up, if I really really wanted to. Before going into the store, we sat in the car and she made me make her a promise. First, she told me a story about a woman she'd known who's house had been destroyed in a fire. As happens with many major house fires, all of her belongings were destroyed. Including her make-up. Apparently the lady was so embarrassed to go out in public bare-faced, even after a life crisis, that she would not see anyone until her husband went to the store and bought her new make-up. My mother's point was that she hoped I would never get to a point in life were I was uncomfortable in my own skin, and I could tell that she really was conflicted. At the time, I remember assuring her that I would never become as vain as that woman. And I truly believed it, too.

Over the last 8 years, make-up has become an integral part of my daily routine. Sadly, I probably paint on a face more often than I brush my teeth or wash my hair (only once a day for the later two). Recently, once of my closest girlfriends told me that I had the most perfect complexion. My response was a simple "yeah, right." I told her I just ALWAYS wear foundation, and that she'd probably only seen me with out it a few times. She smiled and nodded and said, "Maybe so."

But now she's got me thinking. I've always admired her for not needing to wear make-up everyday. Infact, earlier that day when we met up at Target, I had noticed that she must of been crying just before we got together, but despite the red, puffy, bare skin, I thought she was absolutely beautiful. Had I seen my own face in that state on the same day, I would have thought it necessary (an absolute requirement actually) to coat my face with cream and disguise my swollen lids with a thick smear of eyeliner. But she didn't. And I loved her for it.

After commenting on my complexion, the two of us stood side-by-side in front of the mirror. We pointed out every mark, discoloration, pimple, scar, line, and every other single flawed detail we saw in our own faces. But when I looked at her, I saw none of the things she mentioned. Maybe a better statement is that I saw none of them as flaws. We'll, I did notice the tiny, unoffensive pimple cradled beneath her bottom lip, precisely where I had one of my own. But age spots added character. Scars gave way to life stories. And pimples are temporary indications of stress and cycle-status, but completely forgivable. On her face. But when I looked back at my own, with 5 years fewer markings, I was disgusted.

Its pretty standard that I expect things from myself that I do not expect of others, but at that moment when we two girls bared our insecurities, I realized how unfair I really am to myself. My mother's story of the woman who refused to be seen in public plain-faced came flooding back and I finally understood her concern that day.