Of course I am not wearing makeup. Phah, don’t be silly. My lashes are twelve inches long naturally. And I don’t have hair that grows in strange, unexplainable places. And I guess I just inherited my Mom’s flawless, porcelain skin— lucky me. And actually, I was born with big, sexy hair AND painted toenails… obviously. 

I want to be with someone who falls in love with me unmasked. Who rolls over in the morning and stares at me with devouring eyes. Who explores my wrinkles, my rolls, my chubby bits, my unshaven, un-manicured, my unpolished, my unpainted. I want to be with someone who loves my-ness, without exaggeration or reduction. 

And yet it is I who puts on my morning mask each day, brushstroke by brushstroke. Who clips, cuts, trims, shades, embellishes, hides, smooths, fluffs, teases. I make myself a pin-up version of me. So am I robbing him of the ability to SEE ME? To know, to unearth me?

I was called private recently, by a man (oh my God, this man, mmmmhmmm) who helps me believe I am a goddess. THE fucking GODDESS (hear me roar!). And now “private” keeps rolling through my brain like a blue-stained marble stuck in a pin-ball machine. AM I? Do I disguise? My soapbox and I have practically fucking patented the term “authentic”. But do we lie about our ability to physically represent the word? 

He pushed the hair out of my eyes and asked me if he could see me without makeup. Softly, like in church, whispering a beloved prayer. He said he thought I’d be even more stunning. Even? More? Stunning? (Open your mouth and say, ahhh, Jodi Dey). But I flushed hot at the mere thought of it. Wiped away the imaginary migrating mascara from under my lash line. That is a level of intimacy I am just not ready to go to yet, I smiled, embarrassed.

Intimacy?? Makeup-less= intimacy? Self-imposed daily cosmetic surgery, anyone? Egh, yucky, right? And yet I whirl around scalpels and tools that change my crooked bits into beautiful. I make-believe my Self wonderful and hide the rest from view.

Do these little lies or exaggerations or omissions chip away and therefore re-shape my integrity? Prohibit me from being authentic, on the inside and out? Maybe it’s not to him I need to introduce my unpainted self to— maybe it’s to me…

… I just hung out in front of the mirror naked and examined my unkept self— for 5 LOOONNNG MINUTES. I smell pungent after a long hike, have purple circles under my eyes, a tiny patch of rough skin under my butt, and unusually pale skin is literally married to razor burn. And I didn’t reach for my concealer, or my moisturizer, or my baby powder, or my tweezers or my deodorant. I stood and sucked it in, the grit, the real, the me. Hmmff, not so bad, I thought. I kinda glow without makeup, and my eyes look sooo blue. Never noticed that before. And my skin smells like… skin, which is sort of lovely. And maybe it’s kind of endearing that I have this clever rough patch on my tush- considering the rest of my skin is naturally silky and it’s a little experience only a fortunate few get to know.

Soooo let me rewrite: I want to be with someone who helps me fall in love with my Self unmasked. Who holds my hand as we simultaneously consume my wobbly bits, my dimples, my rough-ness, my scents, my unshaven, un-manicured, unpolished, and unpainted. Yesss… I want to be with someone who inspires ME to love my-ness, without the daily lies I tell. Just me, unkept and true.