Make-up is not for me

I've never been a make-up wearer.  Even when I was a teenager and all the other teeny-boppers were begging their mothers to let them wear just a little lipstick, I was still trying to look and feel less like a dork (I had just recently started wearing contact lenses and was no longer four-eyes).  I learned to wear make-up on stage, when I was playing a character, and to this day, I still feel the same way when I have make-up on. 

Even though I'm not sure I look any different here.

I used to say that if you never start wearing make-up, no one will expect you to, and that bit of wisdom (which probably sprang more from teenage laziness than anything) has served me well over the years.  I (almost) never wear make-up.  I have a fondness for tinted chopsticks, and wore Dr. Pepper flavored/colored Lip Smacker for years.  I still will when I can get my hands on it.  For my 30th birthday, my aunt bought me, at my request, some Clinique Almost-Lipstick in "Universally Flattering Black Honey." I love it, but like anything I put on my lips, I need to reapply frequently, and so you can really only tell I'm wearing it for the first ten minutes after I've put it on. 

Plus, the fancy stuff doesn't fit in my pocket very well.

That doesn't mean I don't like make-up.  I do.  In fact, I am fascinated by it.  I own a Bare Minerals starter kit, in the wrong shade because I over-estimated the level of the tan on my face, of which I used all the colorless Mineral Veil and some of the mascara.  I have one of those eye make-up sets that are supposed to enhance your eye color.  I have even in recent months tried wear eyeliner and eyeshadow, but rather than make me feel more myself as some people say, it makes me feel less myself and more self-conscious.  Perhaps that's left over from my days wearing make-up in the theater.  Pancake make-up is not attractive on anyone in normal lighting.  I never wear blush because I have just the perfect amount of rosacea, right on my plump cheek bones, which is accentuated when I am excited, have a migraine, or have had a drink or two.  I did pay a stylist a ridiculous amount of money to make me up for my wedding day.  The effect was wonderful, but even the professional application of cosmetics didn't make me look as good in the photos as my ridiculously photogenic husband.

He always looks good in photos.  It's sickening.

My sister says she's jealous of the way I can look so natural.  I am jealous of her ability to pull off the smokey eye, bright colors of eyeliner, and style her hair.  It's an art in which I have no talent, and she does. I can french braid my own hair, but so can just about any woman with long hair.  It's very convenient, and makes me look like I put a smidgen of effort into my look.  I've also been experimenting with nail art, with various degrees of success.  It's the in thing you know.

Box O' Nail Polish

So, in conclusion, make-up is pretty awesome (and have you read some of the ingenious things they can do with color matching and chameleon shades, and OMG is there any way to remove all water-proof mascara? That stuff is industrial).  I own some, but don't use it, and when I do, I'm probably not doing it right.  And that's OK.  A little powder (or mattefying moisturizer) to keep the shine down, a little cola-flavored lip balm (no gloss for me, that stuff is sticky), and I'm good to go.  But even though I've given up on full-face make-up, I'm on to new and greater adventures in fashion.

Quirky Gothic TM

Confession of a Scrunchie Addict

I once read on Jezebel (a liberal fashion blog that I read pretty regularly), that the only appropriate time to wear a scrunchie is if you are performing gymnastics in the Olympics.  To this I say:  Jezebel, you are wrong.  Maybe it shows how non-existent my fashion sense is, or maybe it just indicates I've never left 1997, either way, the scrunchie is my hair accessory of choice.  Nothing but those fabric-wrapped loops of elastic will tame my mane of hair, especially in the morning when I haven't done anything with it . Or even in the evening when I want that elegant up-do without a lot of fuss.  Oh heck, all the time.  I wear scrunchies all the time.  No other hair accessory in the world has been created that can single-handedly hold up all my hair.  There is no clip, no headband, no magic wand invented that is capable of allowing my hair to defy gravity and stay off my neck the way I want it to.  There is only the scrunchie.  In it's natural state, my hair is long, thick, and slightly wavy. 

Like so, only usually without the straw hat.

Not only is each strand thick, they grow thick on my head.  Which is great.  I love my hair.  I occasionally get it cut so that it has long layers that brush my shoulders with the rest a few inches longer, but mostly, I just like it to grow in unabashed abundance until it gets gnarly at the ends, and I get it trimmed.  Sometimes I don't even bother paying someone to do it, I just give my patient, slightly OCD husband a pair of shears and let him carefully cut a straight line.

My stylist. 

I guess that might explain my love of scruchies:  instant hair "style".  There is no fuss.  My neck is free and open to the air, as it prefers.  And I have had to do very little to get it so. 

A scrunchie and I enjoying a cool mountain stream.

The biggest problem:  finding one.  I own about a dozen scrunchies, but to cater to fashion, most of them are dark or neutral colors.  That means they blend in to the surroundings like a baby deer. 

Where's my scrunchie!!!

They generally congregate on my nightstand, because I do take my hair down when I go to sleep.  No, I don't do the Little House on the Prairie thing where I braid it at night to keep it neat.

Although, maybe I should.

Unfortunately, I always seem to want one when my husband is sleeping.  And when I need a scrunchie, I NEED a scrunchie.  I'm also clumsy.  So clumsy it could probably be considered a disability if only the government would realize that I need to be protected from myself before an uneven sidewalk causes me to lose a leg.  So I sneak in to the dark bedroom, try not to bump into the bed, avoid knocking over my ever-present water glass, and search for a scrunchie.  "What are you doing?" Dan sleepily mutters.  "Nothing, go back to sleep," I whisper as my hand closes around my goal:  a purple glittery monstrosity with lace appliques.  Now said  monstrosity is holding up my hair as I type this, and I love it.  I will use this scrunchie all day, no matter if it matches my outfit or not.  It may not be in vogue, but so what?  I love it. 

Maybe someday my cosmetologist sister will teach me how to blow dry my hair so it's easier to manage.  But I'm not holding my breath.  Even if she succeeds, my scrunchies and I will continue to defy fashion (and gravity), on a daily basis.