“Being attractive to men comes with an entire host of social and sexual pressure that I just am not looking to invite.”

The above quote is from a friend’s FB post, I think — I saved the snippet without attribution (bad writer! bad!) and so here it is. I pulled it because it resonates strongly with me. Being seen as attractive at any level is an experience I find spectacularly odd and, when it (rarely) happens, uncomfortable. Putting forth an effort to increase that attractiveness by measures of paint and dress and underwire has always felt like the bravery of a fool.

I’ve had an on/off relationship with fashion and makeup my entire life, fueled by the competing pressures of a 2nd wave feminist mother, obesity, and the beauty industry. Even my mother was conflicted about it, rarely wearing makeup after I was born because she was fat and therefore, by internalized Western beauty ideals, beyond any hope of ever being considered pretty or attractive. Yet, we shopped for makeup regularly through my teens, ostensibly for me. Given how she generally disapproved of me wearing the crap, though, I believe (now, in retrospect) that they were trips down fantasy road for her to a place where beauty could be bought and owned. 

Makeup counters, for all they feed into the industrialized beauty industry and impossible feminine ideals, are places where women gather to share our woes and our hopes (similar to nail salons and hair salons). We buy lipstick and tell each other how pretty it makes us, subject only to the opinions of other women (both cruel and kind) and not subject to the dangerous, censorious gaze of men. Men (by which I mean straight cis men) don’t exist at makeup counters. The risk of actually being pretty in a particular lipstick is only that we might inspire petty jealousy or condemnation. Not (as we are often warned about being seen as “beautiful” in public spaces) of being raped. 

Not that rapists are inspired by lipstick color. It is a great irony that our looks have nothing to do with the reasons we are assaulted in the vast majority of cases. We become victims because we are convenient and vulnerable, not because of MAC A77 “Valiant”.

The connection between being noticed and being subjugated is drilled into us, though. Our beauty, our attractiveness, is not ours to do with as we please. It is always a risk or a rebellion or a compromise. Yet, by taking a trip to the makeup counter, my mother could set aside for a moment the fact that she was “fat and ugly” and buy the beauty she craved. Briefly, tragically, she could pretend that she owned herself, her beauty, and her dreams. 

By the time she got home with her expensive flights of fancy, she was back in the world of men and shame and fear. Away from the makeup counter, men owned beauty. Mother, well out of her twenties and well over 200 pounds, did not rate anymore and she knew full well that no makeup could cover up those flaws. 

The makeup would languish in a drawer until, a few years later, I would surreptitiously throw it away. Over and over again. 

Mother knew that her looks, once treasured and admired, were the reason she was invisible. Given her mental illnesses and general poor health, I think this was in some ways (probably subconsciously) a relief to her. She excelled at hiding, and being fat was a critical asset to that goal. 

It seems counterintuitive that fat people, who are viewed as large and heavy and taking up so much space, are socially invisible but studies have shown that to be true. The fatter you are, the less people want to see you at all, much less acknowledge you as a person. Mother, who barely felt like a person most days due to her bipolarism and other health problems, seemed to  both delight in not being objectified and rage at being non-existent. 

Such is the quandary of all women in our society, I think.

In the main it is just easier to not wear make-up and so when I was not being required to by Mother or social obligations, I didn’t. I did not wear make-up all through college and my early twenties, outside of job interviews. I wasn’t very good at applying it due to not practicing it as often as my peers did, and it felt weird on my face. It wasn’t “me.” 

Late twenties and thirties were a time of rebellion and in-the-moment living that was played out in bad jobs, bad life choices, and bad hookups. All I lived for was to go to the dance club several times a week and dance. I wore a lot more makeup a lot more often and became very adept at it (at last!). That was countered by the fact that I was also gaining weight (and losing it, and gaining it…my eating disorder issues are come by honestly, I guess) which brought with it a different set of insecurities. Makeup and fashion sometimes plastered over them, sometimes fell victim to them. 

Amidst all of that through the years was the danger of being attractive. 

Not wearing makeup doesn’t dispel that, despite what rape apologists have you believe. I was groped by a grown men starting from when I was ten years old, and believe me, there was no makeup or “mature” fashion sense involved. My status as naive, socially incompetent, innocent, frumpy, dorky kid was one I carried all the way to and through college. But wearing makeup and “attractive” clothing could certainly exacerbate the attention I got. Makeup and form fitting dresses made me more visible (I have a hell of a rack, even now, so there’s that too) and thus, a more visible target. 

Being fat was an out for all of that, not that I had a lot of control over it. The only times I was even close to svelte were when I was practicing very disordered eating and exercise routines. That was hard on me physically and mentally, and the rewards were mixed. Great clothes! Constant sexual harassment! Unending hunger! Excellent cheekbones!

Pick your poison.

These days, the majority of my “don’t care” fashion/makeup regimen continues to be based on the fact that I can’t be bothered with the time/energy investment. But that other sliver of percent, maybe 10-15% if I have to quantify it, is wrapped up in the contrasting emotions of wanting to look pretty and be seen as attractive yet dreading the results of that.