My mother didn't wear make up when I was young, so there was never much for me to experiment with. Instead I played with aging pots of pancake foundation, grease paint and pressed powder that smelled of lint. Theatrical make-up is used to make facial features visible to the audience, and to make skin look normal under harsh stage lighting. But it also helps the performers get into character. With exaggerated eyes, overly-rouged cheeks and, occasionally, some stippled-on stubble, I found it easy to pretend to be someone different.

A funny thing happened on the way to adulthood. I decided I didn't want to be anyone else. I quite like being myself. So by virtue of this somewhat warped and childish logic, I don't wear make-up. I did go through a lipstick phase a few years ago, but then someone at a party referred to me as “the lipstick girl.” I realized that the lipstick was taking over my identity. I wanted people to remember me for my sparkling personality, not my cosmetics, because deep down inside I'm an immature prick with an over-sized ego. So I stopped wearing it.

Because of all this, I went into this project with very meager cosmetic supplies. I had about fifteen tubes of lipstick, ten of which were discarded due to early signs of fossilization; two small pots of eyeshadow purchased for a Halloween party; a packet of loose powder; a tube of mascara acquired under suspicious circumstances in 1997; and an odd assortment of brushes culled by my mother from her extensive collection of free Clinique samples. I also scrounged up two small pots of that shimmery body powder that was popular for fifteen minutes during my senior year of college. The mascara had to be dumped after I realized it was making my individual eyelashes itch, and as of this writing six of the twenty-some brushes have been hidden by my cats. So in the great tradition of YoLG, I'm more or less a clean slate with regards to make-up.
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