pictorial commentary on the beauty industry
I had a lip blush yesterday. It’s funny, as much as I try to embrace unconventionality, I often fall into these traps - everything really does feel better when you look good, when you’re confident in yourself. People are nicer to me when I dress like a girl and look pretty. I like when older shop owners or girls in bar bathrooms compliment me on my appearance. Who doesn’t?
It’s an odd set of rules for the first week or so after the procedure. Permanent makeup is kind of like a tattoo, so it’s no hot drinks for a bit, no touching my lips or licking them, no alcohol or kissing for at least a week, and no smoking for a month - they advise you to switch to vaping, but you can’t do that for a week, either. Those last few are what’s tripping me up - sans hedonistic pleasures, I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do with myself for the next seven to ten days.
I can’t stop biting at my bottom lip as I’m writing this. I don’t usually do that. The minute we’re told not to do something, there it is, right at the front of our minds. It’s a nervous habit, and I’m doing it because I’m thinking about how I probably won’t ever be happy. I’m at the lowest weight of my life, but I dream of being thinner. I’m not ugly in any sense, but I dream of being prettier. I’ve fixed my jaw, and my septum, and now my lips, I’ve lost 12 kilos and gained a few back and chopped off all my hair, but the voice of that anorexic sixteen-year-old is still in there somewhere and she’s hungry - both literally and figuratively. For all the things I still don’t eat, despite being recovered. And for just a little more, the one thing that will finally satisfy the disconnect between body and brain. Perhaps a six-pack?
Hang it in the Louvre!