The title is a lyric from Bikini Kill, if you’re wondering. AND NOW, a wall of text for you to skim over.
I am a feminist. And for the longest time, I tried to tell myself I didn’t mind what anyone thought of me. I tried to make myself believe that if someone called me fat I wouldn’t even care. And sometimes I don’t. I don’t care what people think of my clothes because I know that the majority of people who will criticize them don’t know a thing about fashion outside of Teen Vogue and Abercrombie catalogs. And I am not ashamed of my body. My self-image is fine. But for so long I’ve not touched makeup because I thought it was giving in to society’s unrealistic beauty standards which include perfect skin among many other impossible things. I didn’t wear flattering things to show my rebellion against what media says “looks good”. I didn’t even pierce my ears, because I didn’t want to seem like the media had any influence on my perception of beauty. (Also, I hate pain.)
But what if I WANT to have flawless skin?
Today I had an epiphany: it’s not anti-feminist to wear makeup or try to look pretty. You’re not giving in to anything.
If someone asked me why I dress the way I do, I’d say it’s because I like the way it looks. In other words, I dress to look good, based upon my own standards of “good”. If I said nobody else should do the same thing, what kind of feminist would I be? Everyone should be able to dress the way that makes them feel good and the way they think looks good, even if that is influenced by the media.
And, today, I wanted to have a sort of angel-like appearance based upon the neighborhood boys’ perception of the Lisbon girls in “The Virgin Suicides”. I wanted to seem light and wintery. And for the first time in about a billion years, I put on some concealer. I did it because it looked good with my pale, simple, flowy outfit. I liked how I looked. I did it for me, not for everybody else, and that’s what made me feel pretty.