Watercolor beauty
I am a girl who is obsessed with wearing makeup. I like wearing makeup because it makes me feel beautiful, like a confident rebirth of myself. But one question always haunts me: Do I wear makeup because it makes me confident, or do I wear it because I am afraid?
I am staring at myself in front of my glam desk mirror. I am now again doing makeup. I am a painter, not of canvases, but of myself, using makeup as my way of creating confidence as my elusive masterpiece.
Why this obsession? What is this daily ritual of transformation for?
I stare at my eyes as if I am looking for the answer underneath the layers of makeup applied to me. The palette serves as the colors that made me shine brighter when everyone told me I was dull. The layers of foundation I applied just to cover the scars I’ve always wanted to bury. The winged eyeliner I drew just to feel confident about my eyes which everyone told me were lame. And the lipstick which made me feel pretty. Makeup became my favorite, the only thing that I had when the world was staring at me with harsh gazes. Each stroke was a silent cry: “I will not be ugly anymore.”
Obsessed? Maybe. But in a world obsessed with perfection, with airbrushed faces and filtered realities, wasn’t this just another desperate attempt to fit in? Perhaps it’s the weight of whispers, echoes of a cruel nickname that once branded me “ugly.” Yes, I was called the ugliest among the family, the town’s resident ghost who was laughed at for my facial features. They’d even laugh, saying I was only pretty in pictures, never in person. I was unseen and unwanted. Each word etched a scar, not on my skin, but on my soul, leaving a mark I’d never forget, a mark I’d have to carry for the rest of my life.
That’s when I began wearing makeup. At first, it was just a hobby. I felt pretty, at least until I washed it off. But then, wearing it became an obsession. I wouldn’t post any pictures without makeup, and I never went out barefaced. Underneath it all, I covered the scars of my soul. Makeup made me unafraid of judgment.
One day, I went out and while I was in a crowded mall restroom, reality shattered me. My fingers, tracing familiar lines on my face, trembled as a reflection mocked me from the mirror. Across the sink, a vision emerged from the suds—a girl, her porcelain skin touched by the water’s kiss. While there was me, a watercolor painting, whose beauty was threatened to dissolve at the merest hint of moisture.
Why her, the silent question choked me, tears pricking at my eyes. Why this cruel lottery of beauty, where some are adorned with natural grace, while others, like me, must toil and paint our own?
It’s an unfair comparison, I know; yet, the insidious whispers return, clinging to the cold silence. “If only I were born pretty,” the words paint a bitter truth on my lips, a silent lament echoing in the sterile air.
As I stare at the mirror in front of me, I see them reflected back, those scars, the scars I tried so hard to cover, together with the pain from the past that I tried so hard to run away from. I pick up my foundation to fix the makeup ruined from the tears.
Slipping them on, I began to see the beauty in my scars. My appreciation for them grew. It was the first time I felt pretty even without good makeup on my face. I let myself cry, washing away years of self-concealment as I finally embraced the truth: my flaws don’t diminish my beauty, they are a part of who I am, and I am, irrevocably, beautifully me.
I wipe away the tears, my reflection meeting mine with newfound defiance. The scars remain, etched reminders of a battle fought, not lost. But they are no longer badges of shame. It may not seem like much, but embracing what I once saw as a hindrance in showing the world who I really am is enough.
“This is me, scars and all, and I am beautiful.”
Beauty, I realized, wasn’t a product to be purchased or a skill to be mastered. It wasn’t the flawless people that we saw in the magazines. It was the symphony of a thousand souls, with each soul having a kind heart.
And in that realization, I found my own beauty inside of my own soul, waiting to be revealed.
And to the girl in the mirror, the one bruised by whispers, crying for acceptance, I say this: You are beautiful, not despite your scars, but because of them. So wear your makeup, or not, it’s your choice, it doesn’t make you any less beautiful.
Show the world your light and not a painted shadow.
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Micah Lei A. Rivera, 18, is a communication student at Mariano Marcos State University.
