I used to be the sort of woman who bought make-up, but seldom wore it. Blessed with decent skin and the round, freckled features that I cursed at sixteen, but that I am becoming increasingly grateful for as the years pass, I thought cosmetics would always be aspirational purchases for me. Mascara, foundation, lip-liner — it all seemed fine for a night out and sure, it was fun to shop for eye-catching colors, but a full face did not fit into a morning routine that involved fifteen minutes of basic hygiene, lip balm and lacing on a pair of presentable sneakers. For years, I have treated makeup the way most people treat fragrance — as a pleasant, affordable and completely optional luxury. It didn’t bother me that co-workers were often surprised to find out I wasn’t a suspiciously experienced and articulate nineteen-year-old or that my toddler had difficulty recognizing me in eyeliner and pantyhose. A girl — and most days I still felt like a girl — got by on brains and spirit.
Then last spring I visited a new family doctor, who pointed out that despite my delusional belief I had inherited my mother’s dark, coppery coloring, I was really a prime candidate for the sort of skin cancer that had claimed the top of my father’s ear the previous month…
