Jane Pike reflects on her constantly-evolving relationship with make-up.
T-zone meant one of two things when I was a teenager. It was either: a) an intersection that involved stopping your car to look left and right or b) an unfortunate shiny space that existed below the hairline but above the chin, and somewhere in between the cheeks.
I grew to resent the term with a similar loathing to the problem area itself. As though singled out by the big man in the sky, I found it personally offensive. I mean it seemed punishment enough that I had to watch Shane marry Charlene alone in the living room with a blotting pad stuck across my nose. What more did I have to do?
And as for Dirty Dancing? Puh. Leave that to the experts. I was never going to have the time of my life with skin like this.
Pigeon-holed and backed into a corner, I did what any other self-respecting, overtly hormonal teenage girl with mood control issues does. I invested heavily in make-up. Seeing the light, I snatched at multiple bottles of foundation, stockpiled wads of dulling powder and invested in niche-market blotting pads.
Rejecting the notorious ‘‘oversleeping'' reputations of my teenage colleagues, I rose early, blotchy-skinned, blurry eyed, and strutted to the bathroom. Barefooted on the mat, I peered critically at my features - just far enough away that I wasn't cross-eyed, but close enough to be suitably disgusted.
Only satisfied after making things noticeably worse by poking and squeezing the various protrusions ejecting from my face, I then grappled fervently at my over-loved, stained make-up bag and squeezed whatever my fingers came into contact with directly on my person.
Now, my momentary fascination with my pre-world facing programme at this time of my life has actually very little to do with the fact that I actually wore makeup. No. The intention here I understand. The real fascination - the one that now causes my nose to wrinkle up, my lips to purse and my head to slowly shake in abject horror - is that whilst I thought bad skin was the problem, the real problem was the fact I was sadly legally blind.
You heard me.
Whilst browsing the aisles full of multi-generational cosmetics, methylated-spirited cleansing wipes and skin-stripping solutions, it appears I bypassed the stands housing products suitable for my albino-like complexion, and instead honed in on those specifically concocted for an African-American recently returned from Bali.
Visually confused and without support, I then proceeded to select a six-shades-lighter, concrete-based powder, which I obviously thought matched my previous selection nicely. And this is not the worst of it.
Once at home and confronted with a mirror, further atrocities resulted. I forgot any part of my body existed other than my face. Self-created and unregulated, photographic evidence suggests that time and time again, I created an orange line similar to the Berlin Wall that divided my head from the chin up from the rest of my body, neck down.
And then I applied the powder. Emerging from the bathroom like an alopecia patient who had been locked in the solarium, my parents did nothing to alert me to the dire situation. A fine line between unconditional love and child abuse, I then proceeded to walk around in public day in day out, failed by family members, friends and my own retinas.
The situation eventually outgrown, one can only muse as to the lost friendships, job interviews and random teenage party pashes that had been prevented by this solid fluoro line. And in those quiet moments of reflection, all that is left is to be enormously grateful that it was far too early for Facebook.
Years passed, and a complicated, love-hate relationship with make-up continued. There were the carefree years - the years of even oil production and scanty product application, save a lick of mascara here and there to prove I actually had eyelashes.
The glamour years, of hot red lips and devil-may-care smoky eyes - single, footloose and fancy free.
And naturally, now, the baby years - the hours of constant feeding and frantic days, when the nights become a blur of awakening so frequent you cannot tell if you just woke up or have actually been asleep.
And it is in these years that a real appreciation, a ripening, sensual, passionate love with make-up has once again manifested.
Now evenly complexioned, my skin heaves with constant, gentle yearning for sleep that sighs out of my no-time-to-moisturise pores and the darkened bits under my eye-cream-is-too-expensive eyes.
So, on one day a week, usually a Wednesday, when I leave the confines of my home and venture into the big city for a day of delights filled with grocery shopping and a random sneaky latte consumed at arm's length whilst on the run, I prostrate before the goddess of make-up for the gifts she bestows and thank god I am not a heterosexual man who doesn't have such wares at his disposal.
Now aware of such terms such as ‘‘suitable colour'' and ‘‘blending'', I caress my little tub of mineral foundation, laugh cheekily alongside my mascara, and pout merrily at the mirror along with my lipstick. For I now know, although our relationship has been troubled in the past, my little blue bag full of random potions is just trying to be my friend.
So as I bump into an acquaintance . . .
‘‘Hi Jane! Wow, you look great, things are going well?''
‘‘Oh yes, it's easy. Sleep schmeep!'' (Cue frivolous, carefree laughter).
. . .I know that I have you, makeup to thank.
Side by side, we march forward.
Let's get through this together.
- - Purakaunui writer Jane Pike is addicted to fashion, being a mum and not taking herself too seriously.
