This concept worked well. First, it prioritized values over anything else, and second, it provided guidance for accepting the support of people with my best interests at heart, along with permission to walk away from those who didn’t. Finally, my decision to treat all people as though they mattered felt like a path toward empathy and connectedness. Awesome.
• • •
IN THE AFTERMATH OF MY “AHA” MOMENT, I FOUND MYSELF feeling more at peace with myself than I had been before. I felt curious and pleased by the prospect of discovering myself, rather than shaping myself around what I thought other people wanted me to be.
It was during this week that I realized that I’d been having more and more episodes of not thinking much about my looks, while simultaneously feeling unusually focused on my work, errands, and even my relaxation activities. I was “getting away from myself” more than ever, and yet I felt like I was spending more time just being myself than ever.
I discovered several references that offered explanation for what I was going through. I suspect that during these episodes I was experiencing a form of what psychologists often refer to as flow. Otherwise known as living in the moment, being fully present, being in the zone, or being in the groove, flow offers a state of simultaneous pleasure and productivity in the absence of self-consciousness—a perfectionist’s dream. (Along these lines, I suspect that writer’s block is the polar opposite of flow, though I haven’t seen any scientific statements making such claims explicitly.) I knew that I’d slipped into episodes of flow before forgoing mirrors, but never with as much frequency or ease as I did after removing mirrors from my surroundings.
This made perfect sense in light of the fact that mirrors are often used by psychologists to induce heightened feelings of self-awareness. (Other ways that psychologists induce heightened self-awareness include forcing research subjects to stand in front of a crowd or to listen to their own recorded voices.) We’ve seen some of this already in the research I mentioned earlier, on the relationship between self-objectification and mental capacity. However, psychologists suggest that increased self-awareness can be a good thing (at least when it isn’t preventing underclothed people from performing well on their math tests). For example, in one famous study, Halloween trick-or-treaters were greeted at a researcher’s door and left alone to help themselves to a bowl filled with candy. A note asked them to take only one piece. For half of the children there was a full-length mirror placed right behind the bowl of candy, while for the other half there was no mirror. Thirty-four percent of those without the mirror took more than one piece of candy, compared with only 12 percent of those with the mirror. The theory behind this study is the idea that people who are self-aware are more likely to make sure that their behaviors are in line with their values.
Self-awareness doesn’t just improve the behavior of children; laboratory research with adult research subjects shows that people who are looking at themselves in the mirror are less likely to use stereotypes, are more helpful, and are more likely to behave morally if given the opportunity to cheat in a game. Another study found that eating in front of a mirror slashed the amount of food that people ate by nearly one third, which saddened but didn’t surprise me; our culture is fraught with guilt tied to eating. These studies all illustrate something I’d experienced: The presence of mirrors increases self-awareness. That said, since flow requires a lack of self-awareness, it stands to reason that the presence of mirrors may inhibit flow, or at least make it more difficult to achieve. I imagined that removing mirrors from my environment helped me—and might help others—reach flow more easily.
The concept of flow helped give scientific explanation for my episodes of mirror-free bliss. It was pretty cool to forget about my looks for a while. However, sometimes this caught up with me.
Buying a new tube of mascara every three months on the dot wasn’t something I’d ever done. Sure, I’d read numerous times that mascara is the cosmetic product that is (supposedly) in most need of frequent replacement, but my frugal side has always scoffed at those guidelines. In my mind, rigid makeup expiration dates seemed to benefit cosmetic companies much more than me; with the exception of sunscreen, I have always strategically pushed the limits of my products’ supposed use-by dates.
Thus, I’ve always tried to use each tube of five-dollar mascara until it obviously wasn’t working as well as it should. I refused to discard it one minute before this happened. Not doing this would feel deeply wasteful; I’d be racked with guilt.
That said, not being able to see the state of my mascara without looking at myself in a mirror may have legitimately pushed things past their limit. One day, after I was applying my mascara while sitting at my desk (Why at my desk, you ask? Why not? If you’re not putting on your makeup in front of the bathroom mirror, you can put it on pretty much anywhere else!), clumpy flecks of mascara fell off the wand and onto my work space. Bits of mascara littered my keyboard, and a few specks had settled onto my left wrist. I smeared the fleck on my wrist to make sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing. Indeed, it appeared that my mascara had turned. I could only imagine what my lashes had looked like over the prior few weeks! After all the hoopla about feminism and beauty, I debated simply not buying a new mascara. But then I’d be doing something just because other people said I should, which directly compromised my recent epiphany. I walked myself straight to the drugstore, bought a new mascara, and felt immensely satisfied by my purchase. People who mattered wouldn’t mind.
• • •
IN THE WAKE OF SO MUCH ONLINE DRAMA AND DEBATE, IT HAD been more than two weeks since completing my last BBCTG task. It seemed time for a bit more bridal beautifying. According to task #15, at some point “1–2 Months Before” my wedding, I ought to “use an at-home face mask or get a salon facial. (Don’t risk an allergic reaction closer to your wedding day.)”
In the spirit of experimentation, I bit the bullet and spent thirty-five dollars at Target on a microdermabrasion and peel system and a conditioning clay mask. Thirty-five bucks was steep, but I was assured that I could return the products if my skin reacted badly. My next step: enlisting an unsuspecting amateur aesthetician.
Poor Michael was settling into an episode of Weeds, waiting for our Thai delivery to arrive, when I arrived home and accosted him with demands for assistance. I don’t think he realized what he’d agreed to until he found himself following the microdermabrasion system’s directions to apply “dermacrystals to clean, dry face (about the size of a quarter).” I assumed that the “about the size of a quarter” part referred to the scoop of dermacrystal goop, not my face.
As I stared at the ceiling of our TV room, Michael “gently massaged” my face for what must have been at least a few minutes longer than the recommended forty-five seconds. It must have been a good Weeds episode, because his fingertips started going numb around the time that my cheeks started tingling. Yowza!
“Shit, Michael! It’s burning. Get it off!!” I shrieked.
He quickly, sloppily, applied “activator serum” to my face, and we both kind of freaked out when the ingredients started foaming. Apparently it was “normal to experience a warming sensation,” but I’d had enough. I hauled my butt to the bathroom and gave everything a thorough rinsing. This took awhile since Michael had generously microdermabrased half of my neck and an inch of my hairline. He said I looked like a creature from the swamp.
My attempts to get Michael to help with the conditioning clay mask were temporarily thwarted by the arrival of our dinner. We were back to work soon after finishing our mango sticky rice. Michael finger-painted my face with the clay mask from Boots, which promised to clarify my skin “with a negative electrical charge to pull out impurities.” It was olive green and slimy. Then it dried. Michael kept trying to make me laugh because whenever I smiled, green flakes of the dried mask sprinkled onto my T-shirt. I pondered whether we could find a way to actually test these flakes for thei
r supposed “negative electrical charge,” but it was almost midnight and my facial had already reached ridiculousness.
Michael headed to bed, looking bewildered by his new expertise. I washed all of the green goop off my face (at least I hope I did!). My skin felt really soft, but considering all that effort, I was more impressed by how empty my wallet felt.
I returned the products the next day, only to find out that, because they’d been opened, I could get only store credit, not my money back. Oh well. Finding ways to spend thirty-five dollars at Target wouldn’t be too hard.
Even though task #15 had been a disappointment, and even though some of my online critics had taken issue with my decision to complete the BBCTG list, I knew I would keep having fun with it until the end. If modern feminism wanted me to stop asking permission, I could start here.
• • •
AS THE MONTH OF JULY CAME TO A CLOSE I FELT PROUD OF myself. I’d “come out of the closet” to my blog readers regarding my angst about weight loss and ended up finding closure on choice feminism—an issue that had haunted me for years. I’d experienced one of those rare aha! moments, realizing that, in my efforts to please everyone and be the best at everything, I’d held myself to impossible standards while also straining the connections I wanted to have with other women, whose own gifts and talents deserved celebration.
Deciding that I couldn’t—and no longer wanted to—have it all felt so much more inspiring than the prospect of striving hopelessly to have it all for the rest of my life. All I had to do was be honest with myself about my values and ambitions, and then seek out people who helped me stay on course while distancing myself from those darned choice feminism enablers.
Had I solved the complex relationship between feminism and beauty? No. But I’d found peace regarding my own place within these debates.
SIX
August
MAKEUP FREE MONDAYS AND MAKING IT WORK AT WORK
If you’re properly attired, you’re hired. And if you’re not, I don’t care how “Qualified” you may be—it will be a case of “clothes, but no cigar.”
MISS PIGGY
COMING OFF OF JULY’S “WHAT MAKES A GOOD FEMINIST?” drama and debates, I’d been giving some serious thought to going without makeup for a spell to see what would happen. This idea came about after reading through the comments that emerged in reaction to my essay about feminism and dieting. Several commenters had gone beyond discussions of weight and dieting to accuse me of committing feminist sacrilege by continuing to wear makeup and for working my way through TheKnot.com’s BBCTG list. Yet just as many had said the opposite, that worrying about what anyone else thinks of me (even other feminists) would be, in and of itself, anti(choice)feminist. To diet or not to diet? To wear makeup or not to wear makeup? To embrace bridal culture or to shun it? It seemed that the answers to these questions were leading me toward a “double bind.”
Defined as “a psychological impasse created when contradictory demands are made of an individual . . . so that no matter which directive is followed, the response will be construed as incorrect,” the concept of a double bind is familiar to pretty much every woman in America (Madonna-Whore complex, anyone?). Sociologists concerned with gender inequality often use the concept of the double bind to describe the plight of women in the workplace. Because our culture continues to associate success and leadership with masculinity, ambitious women are forced to either challenge the norms of leadership or those of femininity. Some describe it as a choice between being respected and being likable. As Bart Simpson once famously muttered, “You’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t.”
So what was I to do? In the wake of my entry into the debates surrounding choice feminism, wearing makeup seemed to be a choice that needed conscious deliberation. I hadn’t gone without makeup for ages, but my no-mirrors project had already shown me that wearing much less makeup hadn’t seemed to alter my life’s course, and that it also saved time and money. More important, rather than try to meet anyone else’s expectations, I wanted to base this decision on my values, particularly my commitment to challenge social inequality. I felt certain that makeup and fashion could be compatible with feminist ideals, but I also felt strongly that in order for this to be the case, their use should be rooted in creativity and pleasure, rather than fear of not living up to society’s latest version of patriarchal perfection.
I spent quite some time contemplating my beauty routines and their meaning. In doing so I kept circling back to three words: addiction, habit, and ritual. Defined, an addiction is a condition of being compulsively occupied with or involved in something; a habit is a recurrent, often unconscious pattern of behavior that is acquired through frequent repetition; and a ritual is a detailed method of procedure faithfully or regularly followed, often as a religious rite.
I realized that for much of my life, my relationship with makeup had most closely resembled an addiction. I’d viewed makeup as a necessity, something I couldn’t go without. The idea of not having it on hand made me anxious, so even though I applied it every morning, I also carried a small touch-up kit with me all day. This way of wearing makeup was one that reproduced social inequality. The beauty standards to which I held myself were exactly those that most reified hegemonic hierarchies of gender, race, sexuality, and class; my ability and willingness to spend a good chunk of each month’s paycheck on new products and current styles was a manifestation of my class privilege; and, on a more individual level, my obsessiveness stole time and energy I could have used for more meaningful pursuits. This was an unhealthy addiction.
My decision to go without mirrors was the first time I’d battled the addiction. Yes, I still felt like I needed to wear makeup, but I’d eased up on the products I was wearing and no longer carried a touch-up kit with me. As my makeup practices became routine (and, frankly, boring), they entered the realm of an unconscious habit. Having a makeup habit seemed much healthier and more socially benign than a makeup addiction, but I decided I wasn’t satisfied. I still wore makeup every day, without fail. Wearing less and worrying less were both good things, but I still found makeup compulsory and wore it in conforming ways. Also, if I wanted to wear makeup primarily for creativity, pleasure, and self-expression, I needed to wear it consciously. I needed my habit to become a meaningful-yet-not-obsessive ritual.
Using makeup for creativity and expression would have to wait until the end of my no-mirrors experiment, but growing comfortable wearing less—or none at all—would be an important first step. It was time to swing the pendulum again, even though it scared me.
Feeling frightened to go without makeup during a no-mirrors project might seem really weird, since I couldn’t actually see myself. But even if I couldn’t see it, I believed that my makeup helped me look more polished, more feminine, and prettier. Since cutting back on the number of products I was using, I’d even begun to feel (vain?) pride in my mirror-free makeup application skills. Hands down, the most frequent question women asked me after hearing about my no-mirrors project was “How do you do your makeup? It looks so good!” These compliments made me feel special and also had the effect of encouraging me to keep wearing makeup.
Leaving the house without any makeup scared me less than my earlier fears of leaving the house with poorly applied makeup; I’d prefer to appear as though I was rocking a new barefaced androgynous look than have my face resemble an application accident. I was also beginning to realize that makeup had been a security blanket. It probably had been my security blanket since my teenaged and young adult years of having bad skin, when I would have sooner left the house without brushing my teeth than without applying foundation, concealer, et cetera. I’ll never forget the humiliation I felt when a Chinese foreign exchange student in my graduate program asked me, “My friend Kjerstin, what is wrong with your face?! It looks so hurt!” I started my second round of Accutane the next week. Recalling this history helped me understand why I
felt more confident wearing my security-blanket’s worth of makeup on my face, but I didn’t have the same “this is really shaping how people view me” excuses I’d had back then.
Enter Makeup Free Mondays, a beauty movement promoted by BeautyBean.com, an airbrush-free beauty website dedicated to body-positive beauty. Alexis Wolfer, founder of BeautyBean.com, began Makeup Free Mondays (which I see as a delightful cross between Meatless Mondays and Casual Fridays) as a way to encourage women to feel more comfortable in their own (naked) skin and to stop seeing makeup as a requirement. This is exactly what I needed.
Still, the thought of going without makeup—especially at work—was terrifying. I’d spent the better part of the prior four years conducting research on how appearance shapes workplace discrimination. I was fascinated yet horrified by the demands of “aesthetic labor”—which includes a worker’s appearance, style, and manners of behavior—in virtually every workplace. Different jobs, of course, had different expectations for appearance and style, but none were looks-neutral, and women and minorities generally faced stricter penalties than men for not conforming to aesthetic expectations at work. Add this to the myriad gendered, classed, and racialized stereotypes that influence how people interpret our looks and style choices, and it becomes clear that attractiveness is a moving target. Thanks to my graduate studies, I simply knew too much.
Mirror, Mirror Off the Wall Page 16