On American Beauty

Edited 10/26/14

Earlier this morning, I went into Ulta to buy some conditioner that isn't sold in other retail stores. After picking up the bottle, I decided to walk up and down the aisles as I let my mind wander. This meandering through big box stores isn't retail therapy in the form of numerous needless purchases, but I enjoy the break from phones, from responsibilities, from worries.

The store was busy because of a Bare Minerals makeup event. Women signed up for free consultations as they entered the store, then shopped while waiting for their turn in the makeup chair. I had no interest in the special event, so I continued up and down the aisles until I reached the premium makeup section of the store. This section of the store is distinct from the area that contains everyday brands like Neutrogena and Revlon, whose products can be purchased for a third of the price (oh, how I covet one of the Naked eyeshadow sets!).

Logically, the premium makeup aisles are adjacent to the premium skin care products. Thus, as I turned reached the end the aisle dedicated to Urban Decay products, an Ulta employee stopped me. I had a smear of something black, possibly eyeliner, on my cheek. As I wiped my face clean at the nearest mirror, one that magnifies one's pores, all I could see were my unplucked eyebrows, which family members have previously referred to as "feral." Fortunately, after years of commentary, they've accepted that regular eyebrow plucking isn't high on my list of priorities. Unfortunately, combining a face smear, a stranger and a magnification mirror brought my inner ugly duckling to life.

The employee, a dyed blonde with plenty of premium product on her face, began assessing my skin. After explaining her credentials ("I work in the face care section), she said something along the lines of, "I can see that your acne is acting up. It's probably because of the hormones from pregnancy. Do you know you're not supposed to use products like salicylic acid when you're pregnant?" (I am 30 weeks pregnant, and it shows.)

I said, "Yep!", ready to turn away and continue drifting aimlessly through the aisles. Instead of stopping there, the employee, whose other potential customers were enraptured by the beauty event at the front of the store, proceeded to explain the benefits of a $53 face cream that is useful to pregnant women with acne who can't use the typical topicals ("I can't lie. It's expensive....Such and such ingredient is an acid, but it's plant based.")

After the employee finished reading me the contents of the face cream and listing the benefits to my face, I excused myself saying that I would keep the product in mind. As I finished drifting up and down the remaining aisles, I paid particular attention to the various eyebrow rescue kits, which all seemed to contain two shades of powder and eyebrow gel that "keep them in place for 24 hours!" My pleasant escape from reality was at its end, as I pondered whether I should invest in improving my appearance with one or more of the makeup sets available.

I wasn't too worried about the so-called acne that the employee found so noticeable. I've chosen not to follow my pre-pregnancy facial routine in order to limit what chemicals my body absorbs. In addition, what the employee noticed are scars and some freckles. If you look closely, you'll that I have blackheads on my nose, but today, there are no pimples or other hormone-induced eruptions. As a teenager, however, I did have horrible acne. To get rid of the evidence, I would have to have a chemical peel or something other equally horrific treatment. And, until today, no one has bothered to tell me they notice.

But, notice this employee did. Miss Manners would be appalled, though plenty might think that it was my own fault, really. I hadn't bothered to apply makeup--and usually do not. Why not? Because it requires re-application. Because it melts away with the sweat on hot summer days in Texas. Because I work from home and often don't see anyone other than my husband for days in a row. Because makeup is expensive. Because my husband seems not to care that I apply makeup only occasionally, when I'm in the mood to do so. Because my friends seem to love me whether I have the stuff on or not.

As I drove away and had more time to process what happened in the store, I had to consider the two reactions the interaction provoked in me. One on hand, all of the socialization about beauty in American society and my own insecurities began to surface. What to do? Apply some makeup, pluck some stray hairs and be beautiful--or at least demonstrate that I care about being beautiful? Doing so would somehow improve my life, right? Maybe more people would like me. Maybe I would be happier if I purchased some new eyeshadow and an eyebrow rescue kit and put them to use while also vowing not to leave the apartment without having applied concealer and a mineral powder foundation.

On the other hand, what the hell is wrong with this woman and all the beauty ads and perfect-seeming stars we look up to as role models? Is buying $53 face cream going to help me earn more money? Will it aid me through natural labor? Through my first days as a mother? Will it make my breast milk come in more quickly? Will it make my unborn son love me more? Will my improved appearance make my husband want to make more babies, right now? Will the value I get from the $53 purchase be greater than whatever else it is I plan to spend my "play money" on this month? 

The employee who shared her product recommendation with me wasn't snarky or condescending, and I don't think she intended to insult me. I'm not angry with her, and she did not ruin my day. Instead, I see her as a reflection of society at large, of a beauty zombie who does what many of us do and make a first assessment of another that is only skin deep. Meanwhile, I can cheer inwardly and be thankful that the child currently stomping on my bladder is a boy. His teenage years are likely to be awkward and acne filled, but that will be okay. Chances are no one will ever stop him in a store to suggest that he load his cart with expensive products that will make him more beautiful, more lovable, more desirable, more worthy. His frenemies will not whisper that he is ugly and therefore unworthy of popularity. A peer in school will not comment about him, as one said about me, "[S]he's a dog!" He will not ask his partner if he looks fat before he walks out the door. He will, I hope, just be. That's enough for me. I hope it's enough for him.