Kayla Manjarrez, Senior
My goal for junior year was to go out with a bang. Senior year-- effortlessly rocking Moschino (-inspired Forever 21) and painted red lips resembling that of a hauntingly beautiful Dolce and Gabbana model. While I go to sleep with these intentions every night, each dawn brings a rude awakening: I am not Kendall Jenner, and I was up until 2:44am helplessly searching online for the key to my AP Economics packet, without luck. In my seemingly-endless groggy haze, I often struggle to locate both my shoes, let alone recreate Rodarte’s killer makeup looks before catching the 6:32 bus (believe me, if I could pierce every bit of my brows before school, I would).
So naturally, shamefully, my face comes second (because apparently it’s “against dress code” to come to school in evening wear. Whatever.).
Every morning in homeroom, without fail, I scramble to simultaneously complete that Econ work I admittedly gave up on, and transform myself into that D&G model I secretly long to be. As a result, some corners must be cut.
I love my Mac Studio Sculpt SPF 15 foundation, but more often than not this year, it goes untouched in my Harper’s Bazaar makeup pouch. Life without my BFF has taught me a lot about myself-- most interestingly that I have freckles?!
I was horrified upon discovery. When was the last time you saw a D&G model with freckles? This internal conflict went on for days, weeks, and nearly drove me to insanity. But then one day, something funny happened. I was sitting at lunch, once again cramming for economics (damn you, Econ) when the girl sitting across from me spoke the words:
“I like your freckles!”
“Th-Thank you!” I managed.
First off, I was crushed. Other people took notice to my freckles? Then rational thought kicked in. Other people liked my freckles?
I thought back to the days of when my mother and her mother before her would comfort my cousin, a tremendously freckled face, with soothing remarks like “Freckles are just kisses from angels.” (I can’t remember the exact quote, but you get the idea.) It used to infuriate me. Why didn’t the angels kiss me? What did I do to deserve neglect?
Turns out, I was being smooched all along without the slightest idea.
I think makeup has a funny way of doing that. It sorta contorts one’s thinking and, if you’re not careful, it can make you believe you are flawed if you don’t naturally have smooth, porcelain skin or eyelashes that go on for days. I prefer to acknowledge and love makeup as an art form. Each wing of eyeliner-- an addition to your masterpiece, and each stroke of red lipstick-- the signature indicating completion (“admirable, but exhausting”).
Your freckles aren’t smudges on your Mona Lisa, and I guess I am coming to terms with the fact that I may not be chosen to walk at the Dolce & Gabbana A/W15 fashion show, or any, ever (surely I’ll be invited though…invitations get lost in the mail all the time, right?). But I have just reached the big ol’ 1-8, and I’ve got homework to do. So the freckles will stay, and I’ll love my angel kisses.
Each and every one of them.