When I was younger, I wouldn’t leave the house without makeup. And the irony. That was when my skin was flawless, no wrinkles, no dark circles, just pure, radiant youth. I could party all night, wake up looking like a fresh-faced doll, and still feel the need to cover myself in foundation.
Now, the older I get, the less makeup I wear. Sometimes none at all! And this is a true paradox.
Logically, the situation should be the opposite. At this stage, I should be an expert in optical illusions, I should be lifting my eyes with shadows, erasing dark circles, smoothing wrinkles, and evening out my increasingly unpredictable skin tone. I should be studying makeup tutorials like it’s my second job and have Bobbi Brown as my mentor. I should wake up at dawn, blending, contouring, and highlighting like a pro, emerging from my house every morning looking like a walking Instagram filter.
Instead, I roll out of bed, splash some water and cream on my face, and head out barefaced—probably terrifying the neighbours.
So why do I do this? Or rather, why don’t I? Especially considering that my appearance has always (and still is, I hope) been important to me. Is it because I don’t care anymore? Because I’m lazy? Because I have run out of energy to give a shit? Is it an act of self-love, letting my skin breathe and rest from years of chemical input? Or am I just embracing my natural, mid-life beauty, hoping the world appreciates this raw, unfiltered version of me?
Honestly, I have no idea! But one thing’s for sure—at this rate, in another ten years, I might just stop brushing my hair too.
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