Friday,
March 31st, 1:00pm, 2017, Somewhere in the West of Ireland.
Dear Reader,
I’ve just emerged from
the tail end of a French exam and I think it went well, so instead of sitting
here on the corridor’s cold floor while I watch people walking by, I could
dedicate this next hour to non-fiction writing before I get up to meet my
French classmates for lunch.
I had reserved this hour to edit the first draft of my book. I
brought it into college with me every day this week just hoping that one day I’d
take it out and restart my editing process. However, today, on the one day
where I actually reserved an hour to edit, I realise that my book is not in my
bag as it should be. I think that maybe I had wanted to distract myself with
the wonderful world of fiction so that I wouldn’t pay much heed to the rolling
sound of suitcases on the concourse this Friday afternoon. The sound is less
prominent to my ears now because of the Irish bus strikes, but the suitcases
are there, nonetheless.
This lulling sound
often marks the end of a busy week, but this time it marks the end of the year;
the big end; the beginning of the end; THE end, because, I’ve finished all of
my classes for my undergraduate degree. Never again will I hear the rolling
sound of a suitcase on a Friday afternoon such as this one.
Sometimes when I think
about not hearing the sound anymore, I feel proud, surprisingly…
It is beyond magical to have come this far as a
student from the shy eighteen year old I was in first year who had just grasped
the idea of make-up. To have heard the sound of a suitcase being wheeled around
on a Friday afternoon as often as I have has made me decide that I’m going to
miss it. Although it makes me sad to say that, I must remember that this sound
acts as an ostinato to the last four years of my life, and just because I won’t
hear it anymore does not mean that I won’t reach my perfect cadence.
Today my
designated hour of fiction has turned to non-fiction, and I’ve stopped
beating myself up over forgetting to bring my book with me today, because I
really needed to use this hour to be truthful with myself. Now, with fifty
minutes remaining, I feel like I could tell you about all of the things I’ve
learned in the past four years, but in my year (almost) of blogging, I’ve learned that I can only ever write about
what badgers my mind most at any given time. So, I will tell you about how just
one of the most valuable things I’ve ever
learned has only become clear to me in the past few weeks.
On the
morning of my 22nd birthday this year, I woke at my friend’s house
with a pounding headache having just danced the night away at the ball the
night before. I dragged my limbs from the bed and over to the mirror, wincing
at myself; scowling at the glass as if it were too sharp for me; as if
everything was the mirror’s fault. But, all the mirror did was show me myself
as I appeared at that moment, and all I needed to do was to change my
perception of myself. I wasn’t that girl with a blotchy red face. I was that
girl, still smiling even though she was hungover.
This girl, decided not to wear make-up on her
birthday, even though it might have been expected of her to look nice on an occasion of this kind. At
first she had toyed with the thought of a bare face in her mind; worrying that
a bare face would make it look like she didn’t care. But, why would a face with no make-up equate to not caring? No amount of make-up or lack thereof
could erase her mind’s collection of Winnie the Pooh quotes or the wideness of
her eyes at the sight of some camembert cheese.
And
yet, she still adored make-up because it was fun, and it was an art form, in a way. She wrote fiction for
escapism; to live as someone else for just a little while and yet when her
friends read her fiction they’d see that her characters were still embedded
with her and those characters, by all means would always be true to herself.
Her make-up acted in this way too. Her make-up never changed her; it only
mirrored her. It offered her fifteen minutes of face painting in the morning before school and she enjoyed it.
She
still enjoyed it now on the morning of her 22nd birthday, but the
hangover that bubbled beneath her skin allowed her to relish in her decision.
She would not wear make-up today.
She would
still wear make-up in future, on days when it would be fun, and when it would be an art form in a way. But today, had she
worn make-up, it would not have been for herself. It would have been to match
the other painted faces in the streets and to satisfy the advertisements. So,
she decided that she would wait until she wanted to wear it for herself again
before she opened her make-up bag once more.
The
bare faced girl was no different from the fairy-like girl with the painted face
of the night before, because both girls had chosen what would make them happier
on the given day that was in it. They made their make-up choices for themselves
and for no one else.
This girl applauded her female friends; the ones who
chose to wear make-up because it made them happy and the ones who chose not to
wear make-up because it made them happy.
This girl enjoyed her birthday and she experienced
what could possibly have been the most tolerable hangover of all time; Getting
into the aquarium with friends for free to see all of the fish; Bare face
bopping about the glass’s reflection, and she smiled, because how can you not
smile when your face is surrounded by baby sharks?
I
realise now that wearing make-up makes me no more of a lady than it makes me when I don’t wear make-up, because being a
woman means whatever you want it to mean.
Wearing make-up doesn’t automatically make you a
feminist.
Not wearing make-up doesn’t automatically make you a
feminist either.
But, making your own decision with what you decide
to do with make-up, without relying on the bar that’s been set for you, does.
And, I’m
so glad to finally see that.
I’m especially glad to have realised this while the
suitcases still rolled along the tiles of the concourse. It’s as if the rolling
sound of the suitcases have acted as the hour glass in my four years of self-discovery;
Four years in this institution; One hour of non-fiction writing designed for me
to be truthful with myself,
and what an hour it’s been.
Anyway,
I’d better hurry and meet the girls from my French class,
seeing as our lunch might involve wine and cheese!
Ciao,
Madame Mayreed x
P.S It IS entirely
acceptable to go three days without washing your hair. ;P
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