Thirsty Thursday: Bare-faced or not?
Sarah McCarthy’s Thirsty Thursday column is brought to you each week thanks to Invercargill-based law firm Mee & Henry Law.
Sarah McCarthy’s Thirsty Thursday column is brought to you each week thanks to Invercargill-based law firm Mee & Henry Law
THIRSTY THURSDAY 46
So here I am sitting on my bed in the sun after a long commute, spent ramming a questionable chicken kebab stick thing down my throat while listening to Amy Poehler’s new podcast, only to be shushed by Mr mr after emitting the tiniest chuckle at a funny on the group chat. On my own bed. In my own sun. And he didn’t even say shush, he just motioned “SILENCE” with his stupid hand, because he was trying to count.
God, I have to get up and put a chicken in the oven and I can’t get up. The sun is too sunny and the cat is too purry and the breeze is too breezy and someone is mowing the lawns somewhere out there and it’s just a slice of heaven.
I washed my face off my face as soon as I got home, and not because you really should, and nor was it because there was nasty chicken kebab stick thing grease on my face, but because my eyes suddenly started to madly itch half-way home and I just had to get my makeup off the minute I walked in the door.
I only wear makeup very occasionally now, as I a) rarely leave the house and b) often the shock of having to leave the house means renders me incapable of wielding eyeliner after the trauma of trying to settle my hair and find a decent bra (black bra gone but neva4gotten). But as I mentioned last week, I’ve now several times seen a TikTok saying that women who go bare-faced (as in not wearing make-up, and I realise I probably don’t even need to make that point clear, but whenever I see the word bare I automatically think bum and then bare bum and then bum face etc, etc, etm) are supposedly more likely to be sociopaths or psychopaths, or one of the paths anyway. And I thought about how I feel like if I am making two out of three efforts I should at least swipe a desultory layer of mascara on my eyelashes lest I look somehow incomplete.
So I got on the group chats and asked some of laydeez in my life, “what do you think about this, then” (this being the thing I said above, which swerved unexpectedly into a conversation about head shots because, for a writer and professional communications consultant, I often struggle to get my point across in salient fashion).
None of the women I asked, actual people with real jobs and offices and smart laptop bags, thought wearing makeup was the least bit important for professionalism purposes, which was shocking, because I had assumed the people who would be weirded out about someone coming to work in a cute outfit, nice hair but bum face would be women. And theirs is the approval I seek.
So it kind of took the wind out of my sails, because I was oh-so-ready to rock and or roll and say “but all The Men have to do is roll out of bed, fart, choose a clean shirt that has been put in the wardrobe by the magical pissing bloody buggery shirt fairy, and strangle themselves with a pointless tie - and also how dare they, as if they aren’t already merrily wrecking everything and making butter expensive”.
So now I have to wear makeup every day, maybe? For reasons I haven’t fully thought about properly yet, because I have to put a fucking chicken in the oven? And I don’t even know how to contour and this morning when I looked in the mirror I had The Urge to have a turn at my eyebrows with the tweezers and got eyebrow leavings in my coffee. WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
Disclaimer: While Mee & Henry Law proudly sponsors this column, we do not necessarily endorse or support all the content within. Our sponsorship stems from the belief that a diversity of voices enriches our community. If you find yourself offended, please remember that managing your own feelings is your responsibility. Enjoy the variety of perspectives offered by The Southland Tribune!
Lol you have to be the funniest person to live with your poor old husband must have so many laughter lines on his face poor man