My favorite photograph of my mom was taken circa 1968 in Carmel, Indiana.
I don't love it because she looks perfect {although to me, she does look perfect}. I love
it because she looks beautiful and confident and unbelievably comfortable in her skin. I remember looking at this picture as I grew up, wanting to look just like her. I
longed for her delicate Audrey Hepburn-like features. I desperately wanted to trade in
my green eyes for her rich, brown ones. I wanted her {always flawlessly} stylish,
coiffed hair in lieu of my boring, predictable cuts over the years. I think though, more
than anything, what I’ve really always wanted was to be as relaxed and accepting of
myself as she appears in this picture. This is undeniably gorgeous on any woman : the
quiet confidence that comes from knowing your strengths and your shortcomings and
living in peaceful acceptance of them both.
What stands out to me in this photograph isn't perfection, it's beauty. When did we
stop distinguishing the difference? I look at this picture and decide with certainty that
I don’t want to be perfect {it’s so uninteresting...and what is it, even?}. I want to be the
woman who is so comfortable with herself she can stare down the lens of a camera
and smile with this kind of self-assuredness. This isn’t perfection, it’s beauty. And
beauty is infinitely more interesting.
I think about the women I esteem as absolutely beautiful, and it’s never perfection that
draws me towards them. It’s their life experiences that make them so engaging : the
way you can tell that they’ve been through crazy adversity and come out the other side, stronger and so much more breathtaking than any supermodel. Not just the
woman who thinks she’s strong, the woman who knows she’s strong.
Perfection is just so limiting. There aren't many {are there any?} of us who can be
described as perfect. But, honestly, {forgive this cliche} every face I touch is beautiful.
Perfect? Never. But always beautiful. However, in all my years as a makeup artist,
there’s never been one woman to sit in my chair, hold up a mirror to her image and
respond in any way other than disdain and / or disgust to something {if not everything}
on her face. "I've got to get a face lift," or "I've got horrible skin." "I need Botox," and "I've got to have my eyes done." I get it, of course - none of us look as fresh, rested, or youthful as we want to {I can’t remember when I was last fresh or rested, even in my
youth.}. We all need a fabulous undereye concealer and a healthy dose of blush on the
apples of our cheeks. But when in the world did we determine that perfection was our
standard? Ladies, we’re rapidly moving towards leaving a multi-generational legacy of
discontent and self-loathing, and we’re passing this on to our daughters, who will
continue to carry the torch...
I’m quite certain that my mother has never considered herself to be ‘perfect.’ But
when I look at her photographs through the years, when I think of her as I was
growing up, with a face of impeccable makeup {in the early 80’s...I remember shiny,
black Lancome duo compacts neatly lining her bathroom vanity}, she was perfection.
It was her own uniqueness that came to represent real femininity to me, mysterious
and powerful. She was what I aspire{d} to be, feminine and commanding at the same
time, smiling with her deep, mulberry colored lipstick. Who needs perfection when I
have this?
This is my siren song to women everywhere. We need to relieve ourselves of this duty
to perfection, and we need to redirect our goal : to be confident in our own beauty,
comfortable in our own skin, and to be pretty in our makeup. It’s time to collectively
blast Alicia Keys’ “Girl on Fire” as loud as our car stereo will play it, and for the first
time, for even just one moment of the day, believe in our own fabulousness.
