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Virtues of My Fake Face

I finally realized this year that the reason I get up two hours before class to spent 45 minutes on my face and hair isn’t because I’m trying to impress anyone. I think I do it because it makes me happy.

That’s a little selfish. But whatever. If the routine of hot tea, Nutella on toast (or simply bread now, because apparently that once incident of a dorm burning down due to a toaster now makes toast illegal on campus), and slathering a variety of cosmetic products on my person is what brings just an inch of peace to my life, I’ll take it.

There is something tranquil in this pattern. It’s a little like painting (yet another thing I’ve given up since college, as paint and canvas takes up valuable space, plus is simply too great of a time dedication), I guess. Except every day it’s a familiar, yet different painting. I can echo my attitudes in my choice of eyeliner. I can manipulate the structure of my face with some choice contouring. I can alter my pallor in a few seconds, convince you that I do not have a horrid flu or mono or feel particularly nauseous. I can even draw your attention with focus on a specific area — eyes, lips, cheeks. It’s wonderfully manipulative.

But overall, applying makeup is pleasing to me. I mean, I didn’t give myself a wicked navy cut-crease today for anyone but me. I fucking love making myself feel good by looking good. I will happily and willingly blow a stupid amount of money on products to make my face look smoother, eyes larger, lips perfectly tinted. Does that make me any more or less of a woman? Wasteful? Am I selfish? Egocentric?

Probably. At least a little. Do I particularly care? Apparently I did enough to write this.

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