Living Color

I was a desperately, overly earnest and conflicted teen feminist -- one who felt that artifice -- make up and heels -- were bullshit patriarchy dictates. At the same time I was wild about cobalt blue mascara and six inch platform sling back heels.

This was the '70s and my family lived in a small, backward Western Pennsylvania coal town. There was no internet (*gasp* there was life before the web?!) and no one to ask (Germaine and Gloria not being right there and all)..

Veronica at the blog Feministing writes:

Expecting us all to fit into some rigid all-or-nothing mold in order to be considered a “real” feminist is just as oppressive as the patriarchy....
Bottom line is, having a choice to be who you want to be is part of what makes feminism so great. Whether you like makeup or not, you have the option. It’s the freedom to make yourself into your own kind of woman. Personally, I cannot fathom a type of feminism that doesn’t involve choice. And I certainly don’t want to be involved in a type that doesn’t.

Yes! What she said.

And here’s Emily Hauser, who I’m just wild about, from her Feministe essay Things I Do of Which I Am Ashamed.
Go to the link -- read the whole essay. She’s fabulous!

I don’t leave the house without make-up. This one isn’t that bad, I figure. It’s decorative, and I actually mostly enjoy it. Make-up is fun, bottom line. But I know (because I have access to the deepest recesses of my brain, even if sometimes I wish I didn’t) that even on days that it’s not fun, even on days when it’ll make me late to take the five minutes I need to apply the layers — I’m going to take those five minutes, because I worry what the world with think of me otherwise. The look I achieve is minimalist, entirely natural (people often express visible shock when they hear that I wear make-up at all), but that just further proves the point that I’m using it as camouflage, not artistic expression.

I’ve never been the sort to say ‘I need to put on my face’ before going out into the world BUT I used to really enjoy mascara and eyeliner. It was fun stuff! It added color and a wee bit of exoticism. Eyeshadow’s pretty fiercely awesome too. I favored metallic silver.

I now sport the naked face look 24/7. Is it because I’m protesting the wretched patriarchy or the giant cosmetics industry that’s gotten rich off making women feel insecure and inadequate?

Nope. I’m not. I’m not being all Earth Mothery Goddess Girl either. I have some facial paralysis from my last brain do up. I need to put drops in my left eye a few times an hour or so. I’d be a smeary, hot mess if I was wearing the ‘ol eye paint and, honestly, I just don’t really miss it...much.

And then there’s the high heels conundrum. Can you wear high heels if you're a feminist?
In response to a reader's question, 'Is it unfeminist to wear high heels?' Holly Freeman of The Guardian says:

‘Only if the high heels are shouting up at you: "Oi, Sarah! Women aren't good for anything but cooking, cleaning and shagging! Go and make us a cup of tea, will you, love?"’

Go read the column -- it’s fab.

Just like make up -- it’s about your own personal choice.

I don’t wear the tall shoes anymore or even those fabulously adorable, low kitten heels. It’s not because I’m raging against the patriarchy or being a steel clad survivalist -- can you run away, at top speed,  from marauding assailants in stilettos? I doubt that even Lolo Jones could.

Nope. That ain’t it.

My feets are earthbound, (not Earth shoed, mind you. shudder), primarily because I’m short a couple of balance nerves -- written about here. Hell, I topple over in a stiff breeze while wearing my precious Vans. Even my clogs are a smidge alpine for me now. Sadly, I won’t be rockin’ a pair of Christian Louboutin jeweled platform slingback six inch heels in this lifetime -- gorgeous as they are.

Except possibly in bed. That being the only place they belong -- as Cybill Shepherd famously? infamously? apocryphally? pronounced.

While I’m assuredly saving big bucks in not snapping up every cute, stratospheric, designer moccasin, I’m a bit wistful and nostalgic.

So, what’s left for a groovy feminist with a yen for color and self decoration? Tons! Scads! Hair dye!

Back in my 30s I liked to dye swaths of my mane a lovely shade of dioxazine purple. In my early 20s I went for Crayola torch red. Maybe I’ll go for a big patch of both colors this time. Possibly cerulean blue. Maybe even platinum? Caitlin Moran’s book cover photo with her great streak of white inspires me.

Maybe another piercing too.