Battle Wounds

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I was just trying to be pretty. Girly. Feminine. A real woman. Maybe I was trying to punish myself, one will never know. (I just love saying one… it makes me feel so grown up and sophisticated.) 

Nevermind that I never actually used a curling iron. I only mastered the flat iron… and only for straightening, in the last couple of years. Mastered is being used lightly here. More like can sometimes do a passable job. 

Nevermind I ran out of my travel-sized hairspray. You know what that means dontcha? Yep. All those curls I burned my poor fingers for fell out. 

Nevermind some of my DNA must have gotten lost. I didn’t get the MAC gene. Unless you count an obsession with eyeliner. Expensive eyeliner. That I am not even good at applying. 

Nevermind my eyebrows never match, lending me an air of perplexed annoyance most of the time. 

Nevermind my right eyeball that is a magnet for mascara wands, which causes excessive tearing and smearing of my foundation. 

Nevermind my streaky foundation settling into my pores. My contour game is awesome though. If you call tiger stripes awesome. 

Max Factor, Bobbi Brown, Sephora are the bane of my messy attempts to look like I made an effort to look effortlessly put together. Does Max Factor even still exist? 

I have a whole box of bandaids, so I guess I can’t give up yet. Damn you beauty vloggers. 

Maybe someday I will be presentable without all the battle wounds. 

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