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She looks carefully at her face in the mirror. Her eyes are still red and the tears have left streaks across her formerly flawless cheeks. It looks like she's going to have to start all over.
She begins by washing her face, stripping away the layers of foundation and powder and concealer. It's always hard for her to look at herself after washing her makeup off. At bedtime she won't even look in the mirror while brushing her teeth, afraid she'll catch a glimpse of her imperfections that she hides so carefully from the world. She takes one quick look and shudders at her blemishes, quickly averting her eyes. She can feel the tears gathering again and takes a few deep breaths to calm herself. Papa was wrong, she knew.
I can't remember what you really look like. You wear so much makeup you don't even look like my daughter anymore. What happened to you? What are you hiding from?
I'm not hiding from anything! I wish you would leave me alone!
You need to just be the way God made you sometimes.
God made me hideous and I'll never forgive him for that. You don't understand. Can't you see me? Can't you see why I need to cover myself up?
She begins with the concealer, dabbing the pencil across every scar, bump, and discolored spot. She rubs the edges just so to make them blend perfectly with her skin; no one can even suspect she has anything to hide. Her dark eyes are following every move of her hands as they slowly cover up her faults to present a perfect face to the world.
I don't see anything except a beautiful girl who's afraid of her own face.
Papa, I wouldn't have any friends if they saw what I was really like. Don't you remember a few years ago? I didn't have anyone. Now I have a whole group of friends to be with. I'm happy.
Are you?
She's feeling stronger now as she twirls the mascara wand on her eyelashes. She smiles, a big, cheesy smile, to fluff the blush across her cheekbones. She grins into the mirror, inspecting her teeth. Almost perfect. Just a last touch of powder on her nose and the damage will be undone.
Just look at yourself without makeup. You're not ugly. You're a child of God. He made you the way He wanted to make you.
He made me the way I am, not the way I should be. Leave me alone.
Come back––
I have to go.
She hopes none of her friends can tell she was crying. She smiles defiantly one last time into the mirror, seeing herself, if not happy, at least beautiful. Papa's crazy if he can't see that, she thinks, and heads out the door.
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