Why Do Women Need Makeup?

Sometimes I wonder why as we get older, we women choose to complicate our everyday lives obsessing with how we look. A photographer blogs about his observations in a straightforward enough manner (which is what I'd expect from a guy), and I find myself agreeing with him. Just as he said, at the end of the day, men don't complain for as long as it makes them turn their heads.

Woman in Red - Makeup by Dave Beckerman


The more I learned about what women go through, just to get out of the house, the more I began to believe that if I had been born a woman, I would have had a very tough time getting anything done.

I have enough trouble just trimming my beard every once in a while and all my clothes are the same - jeans and tee-shirts.

Tomorrow, for example, I need to go to a birthday party, and already I'm in trouble because my one pair of "good pants" - well let's say they are seriously crumpled. And I need a hair-cut. And there's a host of stuff that I've put off while I've been doing my work.

And then put on top of that all the other things that they are responsible for - and I can honestly say that I just don't see how I could get anything creative done.

Obviously, since there have been great women artists - there's a way to do it. But I think that if you jump back two hundred years - I don't know that there were many women artists back then. Were there?

Can you imagine living in a world where it took over two hours to get dressed for a party. I used to wonder, as a kid why my mom was always late for everything. When I grew up I found out.

All my dad had to do was put on his suit, maybe brush his teeth and shower and voila. But women, especially at a certain age, are forced by society to be actresses and play roles that are just so time-consuming, and frankly - superficial.

Now in real life, I don't complain about this. I see a beautiful woman and my head turns just like it always did.

Do you know what the fashion and cosmetic business pulls in every year? I'm not saying that there aren't some men that go through a similar process but it's mostly the face and hair that's got to be groomed.

With a woman - it seems to be every single part of her body. In other words - every potentially erogenous zone (I think that's what they used to be called) has to be taken care of. I won't name them all - but from nails to bust to eyes, nose, hair, fingers, toes, etc. etc. What a job.

And sometimes I see that even a large pocketbook isn't enough to carry the paint and brushes around.

I was fascinated by this for a while, and just kept a lookout for women putting on their makeup on the subway each morning. It's enough for an album.

Well anyway - those are my thoughts. Not sure if they are P.C. - probably not - but it's too late to think about that and I've got to get to sleep.

I did a shoot today of a woman, and watching her fix her makeup between each shot (which I am glad she did because the pictures turned out beautiful and no I won't post them now - not without her permission) - but like I say, I would have made a bad job of it.

Peace and (Dis)order

The recent rains prompted me to go through the stuff I have been keeping in storage for, well, goodness knows how long...

I could have easily tossed out all the excess files in the trash can that morning, but as usual, curiosity and the urge to browse slowed down the sorting process and I was once again looking at the mountain of paper that become a haven to bookworms, silverfish, and 'dust bunnies'.

I focused on the contents of a shelving unit that stood in the corner. There were some novels that were handed down by my mother (a voracious reader who has more time to enjoy at her stage in life at past prime) and several inspirational books that I picked up from book sales over the years.

...then I noted in dismay that there must be at least two more boxes of books that I haven't brought out since we moved to this apartment more than a year ago...

I ended up moving my modest collection(s) of magazines to my bedroom. I had one set that was on travelling, another that was a year's subscription of National Geographic, another on home decorating, and yet another on the fascinating stories of high society. Though I scarcely read through an entire issue at a time, I keep the magazines for an occasional dose of light reading.

I lingered on the huge pile of documents and miscellaneous files, all sorted in folders and binders. They should have been properly kept in a metal filing cabinet, but I decided against getting one since I was so convinced that I could keep the paper stream under control.

The subjects of scrutiny were: training manuals from the courses I delivered or developed when I was working for a call center, modules on coaching and leadership development, materials from the conferences and seminars I attended as a delegate from time to time, excess worksheets and lesson outlines from the years that I worked as an ESL instructor (there were essays written by my students, photocopied sections from references such as textbook and academic journals, notes and handouts from my French, Spanish, and Italian classes conducted by my co-instructors).

I even dug up materials from my university days: term papers, copies from required readings, a published script from "The Apartment", film critiques, shooting guides. As I went through them I recalled discussions from discourse analysis exercises in class.

Even after tossing out a basketful of paper, I still felt that resistance to part with the contents of the remaining folders, which are research materials and references. One would think there should be less need for hard copies what with search engines and wikis --- but I reasoned I could never completely trust anything that’s copy-pasted or inadequately researched.

I feel a sense of calm whenever I sit down to sort things. There is something comfortingly familiar about flipping through pages that open a wealth of knowledge, insight, and even memories. Skimming through files felt like opening tiny drawers in my head and letting ideas leap at me like the little critters that were agitated by my sorting.

Another day was ending, and it looked like the decluttering chore was just starting. In the battle for control over the physical chaos housed in this 12’ by 8’ utility-cum-guest room, I realize that the 'hoarding instinct' is a long, long way from surrendering.