I love wearing makeup the same way I love to paint. My face is a blank canvas, and I can use color and light to play up my features. I don’t go crazy with contouring or anything like that. The most I do is a kiss of bronzer on my cheeks, forehead and temples. I don’t usually wear foundation, just a BB cream or tinted moisturizer.
Eye shadow is my favorite, especially metallic and glitter. I can make it subtle for daytime or amp it up for evening. I will never be too old for glitter. I fully intend to have a bit of sparkle on my face well into my golden years, should I be lucky enough to get there. I used to wear a lot of eyeliner, but I’ve gone more subtle in recent years. My eyelashes are completely blonde, so mascara gives them life. A little concealer and some highlight, and I’m good to go.
My basic face for work takes me about 15 minutes. I have it down to a science. I use a hand mirror, sitting criss cross applesauce on the couch, usually with a cat next to me. I think I learned to do this from watching my mother. She sat the same way in her big chair as she put her face on every morning. I think makeup did for her what it did for me. It became our protective armor to face the world.
I started wearing makeup towards the end of middle school. All the older girls were doing it. I wasn’t technically allowed to wear makeup yet, so I went to school barefaced and (ineptly) applied some Wet n’Wild products in the bathroom before homeroom. It started with lip gloss and mascara, and I graduated to a touch of eyeshadow. It gave me a bit of confidence, which I desperately needed after the bullying I experienced in elementary school.
By the time I was in high school, I was wearing makeup every day. If I didn’t have it on, I got asked if I was sick. Every. Single. Time. I have fair skin, and I tended to get deep dark circles under my eyes. Tanning was popular at the time, and I burned so easily that it was never an option for me. People thought I was literally unhealthy because I was pale. Makeup made me look “healthier”.
I didn’t really think too much about my wardrobe, though I did love to shop. My uniform in high school was oversized jeans, a band T-shirt, and one of my dad’s flannels. I didn’t like to be looked at too much, and I hated being catcalled. I had big boobs and a womanly figure, and I covered it up. I felt like eyes bored into me every time I had a tank top on, and it made me very uncomfortable.
When I moved to New York, I got a crash course in fashion. It became clear very quickly that my suburban wardrobe would not do. Looking put together was a requirement, not an option. People here had STYLE. I had a lot of catching up to do. A whole lot. I spent a lot of time (and money I didn’t have) at Century 21 - a huge discount department store downtown. I still chose to dress modestly, but I wasn’t wearing clothes that were four sizes too big for me anymore.
The late 90s and early aughts were a fashionable time, where being slender and fabulous was all the rage. Sex and the City was the most popular show among my peers, and we all wanted the glamour that they had access to, problem being no one could afford it. I bought my first pair of designer shoes at a consignment store, a grey suede pair of Manolo Blahniks. They were 5 inch stilettos and they hurt like hell, but I felt powerful when I had them on.
When I got a job in finance in 2007, I started to make some real money, but my wardrobe needed an overhaul once again. I worked close to 5th Avenue, and became an expert sale shopper. Thanks to stress, spinning classes, countless Diet Cokes, Lean Cuisines, and Marlboro Lights, I had made myself small enough to fit into designer sizes. I bought a lot of clothes, mostly from mid-range stores like Banana Republic, but I also got some gorgeous fancy things from the sale racks at Saks or Barney’s. When I got my first bonus, I bought a pair of Christian Louboutin black satin platform heels, which were the Holy Grail of fancy shoes at the time. I wore them every chance I got.
While there is nothing wrong with dressing well, I took it a little too far. Unless I was going to the gym, I wouldn’t be caught dead in sneakers. I wore at least some makeup everywhere, and I mean everywhere. I would even put some on if I had to run to the grocery store, which is a little embarrassing to admit. I struggled with body image and did all sorts of unhealthy nonsense to keep my weight down.
New York can be a hard place to live, even on its best day. I was already tough, but the city made me tougher. No matter what was going on in my life or how much I was falling apart, I could hide it if I looked put together. I could sell an image of competence.
Was I a hot mess? Absolutely. But you couldn’t see it. At least not on the outside.
While I don’t regret my Fun and Fabulous Years, they came to a natural end. My first real production launched my playwriting career, and I found it more difficult to manage a demanding job and my creative work. I started to rethink my priorities. My shoes were a lovely splurge, but I knew that I could not drape myself in designer goods long term. I had other goals, and most of them had nothing to do with stuff. You can’t wear experiences on your feet. I knew I had some choices to make.
Ultimately, that decision was made for me when I was laid off in 2011. I was entering my thirties, and it was time to figure out what I really wanted. I like nice things, and I love fashion (its fun!), but I’m not actually a hyper-materialistic person deep down. I had done a total 180 from the teenage girl who wore a shirt that said “Labels are for Cans”. The money I was spending on clothes and shoes was now being spent on other things, like getting my graduate degree, running a theater company, and traveling.
My priorities had changed, but one thing hadn’t - I still wouldn’t be caught dead without my face on. I cannot tell you how many days I dragged myself to work - wracked with anxiety, hungover, underslept, you name it - with a perfect face of makeup. I refer to putting on a face when you are a hot mess as “doing a Sistine Chapel”. If your face looks good, no one will see the agony underneath. No one will be able to see that you do not, in fact, Have Your Shit Together.
Being bare faced felt like walking around naked. As long as I had my mask on, I felt I could move through life undetected. People think women wear makeup to get attention, but my goal was the opposite. I didn’t want anyone to see the real me. Whoever that was.
Women with ADHD are professionals at masking. So many of us are undiagnosed because we got so good at covering up our inner turmoil. Makeup has been a huge part of my masking behavior, and one of the hardest things for me to let go of. I love to wear makeup, but I don’t NEED to wear it if I’m running errands, or even hanging out in my neighborhood.
Last week, I wanted to grab a quick dinner and beer with my husband at our German beer garden down the street. It’s a super casual place, we know the staff, and it’s a great place to sit outside and enjoy the current weather in NYC, which is The Best Weather We Get. I found myself procrastinating, and realized that I felt overwhelmed because of all the tasks required to leave the house. I took a deep breath, threw on a comfy T-Shirt and lounge pants, and decided to forgo makeup entirely. I was also wearing sunglasses, so even if I had put makeup on, no one would see it. More to the point - no one cares.
I think it comes down to the RSD of it all. Any comments or criticism about my appearance - some from nearly thirty years ago! - stuck hard in my brain. Sometimes, I feel a bit stunted because of my ADHD. I am a 42 year old woman, but too big of a part of me is still a terrified 13 year old who knows something is wrong with her and is desperately trying to hide it. I’ve said it before here, but I’ll say it again - unmasking has been the hardest part of my ADHD journey, by far. It’s vulnerable, raw, and difficult. It’s hard to face how much you felt you had to hide yourself away to be accepted.
I have no desire to stop wearing makeup entirely. I like nice clothes, and I do still like to look put together. It gives me confidence and a sense of readiness for the day ahead. However, I am less concerned about my appearance in general. Many women talk about the “invisibility cloak” you get after you turn 40. It is true that I am not noticed much anymore, especially by men. Even if I’m wearing a tank top, I’m not really getting catcalled or leered at. I kind of love it. It’s nice to be able to just exist in the world without strange men giving me their input. They can leave me the fuck alone, to be quite honest.
I still all have my fancy shoes. They are lovingly stored in my closet, in the boxes and dust bags they came in. Sometimes I slip them on and marvel at the fact that I was ever able to walk in them at all. I think about myself at twenty seven, teetering around New York City, dressed to the nines. She knew she didn’t quite fit in, but boy, did she have some fun trying.