Eyeliner: A Love Story

5 Years Ago:
There I sat, in front of a small mirror, surrounded by the girls in my pre-professional dance company, as my director instructed us all on the exact and precise art of applying stage make up ourselves, without the help of our mothers, and in a manner which looked completely uniform. My left eye watered massively as I drew a shaky line beneath it, having never used an eyeliner pencil, let alone any other make up, of my own volition.

My legs were folded beneath me, feet clad in satin pointe shoes, itching to return to the floor and begin rehearsing again. I glanced at my left eye, with the thin black line I had drawn no where close to my lash line staring back at me.

Mortified at my inexperience compared to the other girls on the company, I sat, frustrated, turning my attention to my right eye, and wondered why anyone would want to wear make up anyway.

4 Years Ago:
I sharpened the shrinking knub of liner and turned to face my reflection in the mirror atop my bedroom vanity. My pale, slight features smirked from beneath dark locks of hair strewn over the sides of my face, straightened and side-swept to punk perfection as I listened to my mother shrieking outside my closed bedroom door.

"Stop putting all that crap on your face and get to school!" She was saying as I drew thick lines to surround my eyes. I glanced at my closed door, at the neglected pointe shoes hanging off the knob (I had left the company when the director instructed me to lose weight), and smirked again.

Those days, with nothing to keep me going but the fleeting pleasures of pissing people off, I dressed in black and wore massive amounts of eyeliner as a symbol of my rebellious spirit. I set the knubby little khol pencil down on its sacred perch upon my vanity, tugged my long sleeves and bracelets down over my wrists to hide the fresh scars from my daily routine of self-hatred, and rammed my door open, forcing myself to face the day ahead.

3 Years Ago:
Brunette (remember her?) sat on my bed, playing with her pack of Marlboro Red 100s and texting our friends Blonde (remember her too?) and Candy. We were preparing for an outing at the local mall; a sad little collection of shitty shops and a single photo booth.

I took the sparkly black liquid liner liner that I had just learned to use and painted sloppy winged lines on my eyelids. I applied a few (hundred) coats of mascara, face powder, and the pink strawberry lipgloss that I thought made my lips look pouty. I pinned my short dyed-black hair out of my face and assessed my neon outfit. The whole all-black-all-the-time thing was old.

I turned to Brunette and realized that we were both wearing the same purple skinny jeans. My heart sank as I realized that she was much skinnier and much prettier, and I quickly changed into a pair of black jeans, because after all, black is slimming.

2 Years Ago:
I sit in the middle of the only math class I've ever enjoyed/succeeded in, next to Cassi and Kayli (who both thought it would be cool to end their names with a lonely little 'i') and glance at my pockmarked reflection in the little compact mirror that I carry everywhere.

There are bags under my eyes due to my hangover, yes, a hangover on a Tuesday, and my reddish, half-bleached hair is clipped out of my face, revealing my abnormally large forehead. Cassi says something odd and I giggle, trying to draw on my eyeliner quickly before our teacher returns from her trip to the bathroom.

As soon as I've judged my minimal makeup to be sufficiently ugly-covering, I relax and lounge in my chair. I've worn sweatpants today, the ones with the high school mascot's name up the side of the right leg and a paw print on the left hip. I feel gross-ish, but my friends don't say anything and I'm too tired to care.

1 Year Ago:
I sweep my yellowy hair out of my face and stare hard at myself in the mirror. My ponytail is higher than I ever thought humanly possible and my makeup is adorable; green eyeshadow and glitter to match my new cheerleading uniform. I pick up the thin, angled brush I use for gel liner and lean in to the mirror.

As I paint perfect, smooth lines onto my eyes, I try to remain clam. I chant cheers in my head, going through the motions and practicing my facials. I can barely breathe in my tight uniform, and yet I seem to be hyperventilating. I am about to cheer at my first varsity football game, with a team that I know I'm beginning to hate but can't quite seem to accept it.

I know the captains hate me and I'm too chubby for the uniform. I feel pale and scrawny, especially in my school colors, and I can't help but wish that I didn't have to leave my house looking like some albino pep squad freak. But I've signed up for this; for performing and acting perky all the time and being completely clean and sober and saintly (God, it was hard).

I look at my reflection and barely recognize the pretty little cheerleader in the mirror. That blonde, smiling girl in the green uniform with the bow in her hair, looking like the epitome of everything I'd once hated. Who was she?

This Morning:
I let loose a stream of champion cursing as I tear through my makeup collection frantically. I'm already late for school having woken up a mere 5 minutes ago. I push my pack of American Spirits aside and scan my vanity for the item that eludes me.

I glance up at my reflection, already dressed in record time in a tight brown mini skirt with my tribal crop top slouching over my shoulders. My platinum hair is straightened and smooth and 90% of my full face of makeup is on (also in record time), and I feel on the verge of pretty, except for that one little detail that I literally cannot leave the house without, and oh God, I seem to have lost it.
I've lost my eyeliner.

As realization floods over me, my hands tremble and I reach for my black eyeshadow and a small angled brush, which will have to do. For the first time in years, I'm without the staple of my confidence, the holy grail of my morning routine, and the catalyst for my 'pretty'.

I manage to line my eyes fairly well with the shadow, but it's just not the same. None the less, I haven't got time to fret too much about it, and I hurry off to school, where oddly enough I receive several random compliments regarding my general appearance within my first few minutes of walking into class.

Today, apparently, I'm finally noticeably good-looking.



What?
Julia