I Never Saw My Mother Without Makeup

But I’ve learned there’s more to life than being pretty

My mother slept in her makeup. It was probably awful for her complexion, but I don’t know since I never saw her without a thick layer of foundation.

She spent hours in the bathroom each day, styling her bleached blonde hair and applying makeup. My mother had bangs because she said her forehead was too big. Thinly plucked brows accented her eyes, which were layered in blue shadow, liquid liner, and multiple coats of mascara.

I don’t remember what shade of lipstick she wore, but she hated gloss. My mother preferred thick, creamy lip color from brands such as Estee Lauder and Clinique. We lived below the poverty line and couldn’t afford high-end cosmetics, but they were freebies from my late grandmother. Grandma worked at Famous-Barr, a fancy department store that was eventually replaced by Macy’s.

“I don’t know why all these guys like Missy,” my mother once confided in a family member. “She’s not even that pretty.”

I learned at a young age that if you weren’t beautiful, you weren’t worthy of love. My father placed less of an emphasis on looks, though he still had my mother take me to the orthodontist.

“We’ll never get you married off with those crooked teeth,” he explained when I was a preteen. We never visited the doctor for checkups or even when we got sick, but the orthodontist was deemed essential. It’s okay if you’re wheezing from untreated asthma as long as you’re pretty while you do it.

My mother regrets this investment and says I didn’t deserve my $4,000 smile. She pointed this out years later, via email, as we hadn’t spoken in person since I was a teen. In this message, my mother also reminded me that I had 3 kids with 2 different guys and said I’d never find someone who’d stay with me.

I’m single now, so I guess she was right.

When you’re pretty, there are lots of unwritten rules you should follow. You should have pretty friends, but they shouldn’t be prettier than you. If they are, your boyfriend might cheat on you with one of them.

You should always look your best, even if you’re just checking the mail. It’s important to dress sexy, but not too sexy because guys will think you’re easy and assault you. Don’t report them, because you’ll ruin their lives for something you deserved. I made that mistake once.

You should bleach your hair. Dark hair is ugly. Red hair is the absolute worst. If you want to be pretty, you must dye your hair blonde and keep it long. Short hair makes people think you are gay, according to my mother when I got a trendy chin-length cut.

You can’t be pretty if you’re fat. Being overweight is basically the worst thing in the world, so you should do whatever it takes to be skinny. Skip meals, smoke cigarettes, take diet pills. You have an appearance to maintain, and nobody will love you if you gain weight.

I don’t believe any of this now, thankfully.

“Your mom is hot,” my friend said as we walked down the driveway. I was a freshman, but he was a few years older. Much to my embarrassment, my mother was sprawled across the couch in a spaghetti-strap top, no bra, and a pair of tiny shorts when he arrived. In the summer, tight denim shorts that barely covered her butt were a wardrobe staple. When I bought a pair of JNCOs, she called me a lesbian and reminded me that I kissed a girl on the playground in 3rd grade.

In my mother’s mind, being gay was as bad as being fat or ugly. I never understood why, though I remember other family members treating my gay cousin badly.

I’m thankful my mother has no interest in getting to know my children, especially since one of them is a tattooed lesbian with colorful shoulder-length hair. My kids are awesome, and I won’t knowingly expose my family to anyone who won’t accept them. I know what’s it like to have a mother who doesn’t accept you.

“What am I supposed to tell my coworkers about you?” she asked on the drive to her company picnic. “They all brag about their kids, and I have nothing good to say about you.”

Blinking back tears, I sat in silence the rest of the ride. I had a 4.3 GPA, I was in choir, I played the french horn, and I participated in girls’ intramurals. I thought I was doing enough. I thought I was enough.

I was never good enough for my mother, though. It bothered me for years, but now I realize maybe it’s a good thing she doesn’t think I’m worth her time. Do I really need the approval of someone who views the world the way she does? If she loved and accepted me, it might mean I’m just like her. I don’t want to be anything like her. In fact, becoming a younger version of my mother has always been one of my biggest fears.

I support the LGBTQIA+ community. I’m raising my boys to understand that it’s never okay to touch someone without their consent. Bullying isn’t acceptable, and I don’t care what your body looks like or whether you dye your hair. Heck, I haven’t worn makeup in months, so I certainly don’t expect you to show up at my house with a full face.

I’m not perfect, but overall, I like the person I’ve become — even if my mother doesn’t. And that’s okay. We all have to carve out our own identity in the world, one that we feel good about, even if others don’t support us.