This column originally ran 10/13/2009

These past two summers, I worked with a lady named Terri, a paralegal who also used to work the makeup counter at Estee Lauder. She told me a story about a married couple who had walked in one day, looking to get a makeover for the wife. As Terri began painting the woman’s eyelids, the husband kept up a steady stream of questions. “Why do you put that there? What does that brush do? So, is that the right color?” As the makeover wore on, Terri began to get a little annoyed by the man’s persistent, almost-controlling manner in which he was allowing the primping process to unfold. After Terri had finished, the man took her to the side and apologized for being so intrusive.

“I’m sorry if I was a little too involved while you were working. It’s just that my wife is going blind, and I want to be able to learn how to do her makeup. Although I think she’s the most beautiful woman in the world without makeup, I want to make sure that she can still feel beautiful.”

Commence the waterworks. (Men, take note).

But in all seriousness, I would like to make a point in hopes of educating all the men in The Daily’s readership on yet another perspective of their all-too-long list of Things Men Just Don’t Understand: The Power of Feeling Pretty.

It is important to note that, like the man at the Estee Lauder counter noted, being pretty and feeling pretty are two extremely different entities. And for those who don’t easily understand the nuances separating the two (cough, all men cough), it may be very easy to confuse the interplay between confidence, insecurity and the power of a woman’s sexuality.

I’ve seen two sides of the male argument. A good friend of mine consistently berates me for putting on makeup. “Why are you doing that?! Makeup is gross, you don’t need to do that.” Another, yet still very dear, friend of mine has asked me more than once on days I haven’t have time for blush, “Hey Molly, you feeling alright? You look a little ill.”

Critics of makeup, the beauty trade and even stilettos for that matter have argued that the industry was created and exists solely to provide men with yet another source of masturbatory pleasure while simultaneously resigning women to an inherently inferior section of society. You want to please the other half? Well, then you better paint your face.

They wish.

When I add a little more gold eye shadow to my arch, it’s because sometimes I like to pretend that it is fairy dust. When I wear red lipstick, it’s because it makes me feel like a successful journalist, like Mary Tyler Moore. And when I curl my hair, it’s because sometimes I like to feel like a mermaid. It may be trivial, you may think it’s stupid, and I’ll admit there probably will always be a part of me that is an 8 year-old-girl, but I can tell you with just as much confidence that when I put on makeup in the morning it is for me, and not for anyone else.
I went to a high school dance one time in a group of friends that included a girl I didn’t really know that well. I asked her if she wanted to come over and curl our hair and put on makeup before the dance. She looked at me with disdain and responded, “Oh. I don’t really do those kinds of things. I’d rather read a book or watch the news than play around with “makeup.”

O.K., I like mascara. But that doesn’t mean I’m dumb. On the contrary, I’ll wave my Dior wand around my lashes in the morning and five minutes later we can talk about Berlusconi’s ethical dilemmas-and if you catch me on a good day, I can do them simultaneously. Makeup is something I enjoy doing, it’s something that makes me feel pretty, but it doesn’t define who I am. Spending hours pawning through the Bobbi Brown collection in Nordstrom doesn’t make me insecure; it means I have a hobby.

Hell, feminism isn’t perfect. Equal rights in the workforce may not fully exist yet, and there are men who still think they can tell me what I can do with my own body, but I at least find solace in the fact that the intrinsic confidence of feeling beautiful and the part of me that will always be an 8-year-old girl playing “Pretty, Pretty Princess” is a source that no man can ever touch.  And as far as glass ceilings go, give me a job in your company and in two years I’ll be smashing that ceiling to pieces with my five-inch stilettos.

Contact Molly at [email protected].