Her

The 8:00 a.m. alarm rings, piercing the silence of the still night. The sound of the various dings, rings, and bings follows, which advertise the hottest new concealer, with more coverage and longer wear than ever, and showcase the latest sensation in modeling, with the best “natural” body of the decade. Officially, the last glimmer of tranquility in the night is gone, and the chaos of an awakening life surrounds my entire world. 

And so it begins: my ritual transformation. I am greeted by my palettes, brushes, creams, and tubes, which my trained hand prepares to paint with. My bare face holds noticeable marks of me, such as my birthmark, which my grandma swears was a kiss from God at birth, and the leftover acne scars doxycycline wasn’t strong enough to wear off. And yet, with every added brushstroke of foundation, concealer, blush, and bronzer, my trained hand draws her, slowly watching as every inch of vulnerability is covered up in the vintage mirror, just as the word demands it. That’s when I stop — when the face staring across is familiar yet foreign, deep yet covered, me yet her. 

Good mourning.

Only when I look deep within my own hazel eyes can I still see a faint, haunting image of me left, staring back amidst a painting of her. Feelings of shame, embarrassment, and fear envelop me, as does my desire to mourn as I imagine the unimaginable — a world where I don’t need to welcome her in the way she’s been welcomed every day. A world where I don’t mourn myself leaving every day as I watch her forebodingly appear. A world where the air I breathe does not congest me with societal criteria and unattainable beauty standards. 

And it is only when we can start to face the mask in the mirror that we will eventually come to understand the tears seeping from her eyes and felt on our skin were never truly ours to begin with. It’s a profound realization— the tears cascading generationally from one set of eyes to the next in countless vintage reflections are not markers of our individual pain and sadness but symbols of a collective experience we’ve been ensnared in for far too long. 

It's time to say goodbye to her as we wipe off our makeup, guided by unrealistic beauty standards, one more time. And the next morning, when we wake up and are greeted by our palettes, brushes, creams, and tubes, we must recognize their new roles as tools for art, expression, and freedom, each as we personally see fit—to ensure that her eyes never meet mine nor yours again in the same vintage mirror stained with teardrops. 

Good morning.

Strike Out,

St. Louis

Written by: Mika Kipnis

Edited by: Emily Bekesh