Don’t you kind of hate beauty blogs?
So freaking perfect. Sexy sea hair. Never sweaty.
Me in the Bahamas, loving the sun, sipping a cocktail, being gorgeous, obviously
Hate is a bit harsh.
And I’m definitely not hating on beauty bloggers.
They’ve got one small corner of the world tidied very neatly up in couture satin and exceptionally glamorous photography. They do the do with stylized perfection, flawless finish, and seemingly effortless grace.
Actually, I quite like a beauty blog from time to time.
The Importance of Beauty Blogs
The world could do with making a little more room for beauty and a little (or a lot) less room for spiralling, exponential existentialism.
After a bonanza of beauty, I very quickly sniffed out a common silk thread among them: high-end product reviews, looking like a million casual bucks over muesli breakfast with raspberries, and endless holiday snaps with choral bikinis and designer sunglasses.
Who cares?! It’s not like I want to float in the azure waters of paradise, so carelessly cool and amazing.
The actual pink of perfection
That’s great. It’s cool. I can deal.
A Different Kind of Beauty Blog
Except for, don’t you kind of want some depth? Like spine tingling, tears in your eyes, possibly-going-to-vomit-depth?
Don’t you want to find yourself?
Learn how to love who you are in the best possible way right now?
Find beauty that’s more than designer labels?
A sense of meaning and purpose and life and lust and freaking magic?
Create a life that emanates beauty from within?
Maybe you don’t want depth. Maybe the superficial mamas will be the last ones standing, laughing in next season’s moody mauve kitten heels, while I’m slung over a railing with chunks in my hair.
That would be less cool and I would be less interested in dealing – but I do have a sneaking suspicion there are some folks out there with a similarly unsatisfied appetite.
So, let’s eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.
Without taking anything away from the well edited and carefully cultivated, I’m simply looking to carve out my gorgeous corner with everything that falls between the cracks.
What you’re afraid of.
The real reason you spend all your money on clothes you don’t need.
Your shitty disappointments and the odd face plant.
The actual time it takes and the real size and shape of things.
Give me the main course, baby.
Rough times for Barbie, but she’s still MegaBeauts
I’m all for a five minute fantasy. Sometimes, it’s just what I need.
But I want my meat and two veg, too.
Creating a Beautiful Mindset
So, if you want to stick to the creatively-calculated-straight-and-narrow, you have my blessing. Go forth and bask in immaculately manicured oblivion.
If, however, you’re happy for shit to get real, and possibly hit the fan, you’ve arrived at the right place, and very much on time. If you want to take back your brain, body and beauty from the mess of uncertainty, doubt, and fear – Oh honey. You be at the right place.
Thoroughly real, thoroughly hit
In the interests of introducing you to the flavor profile of this site, here is a little example of the kind of deep I’m talking about:
My coming of age story with regards to my personal vanity is so fraught with uncertainty and such bum-clenchingly awful choices, both in the cosmetic and sartorial sense, that I’m prickled with embarrassment at the merest mention of it.
I actually went on a rampage several years ago and disposed of many photographs of me in said state. I regret.
My Not So Beautiful Past
Neither my mother nor sister were or are much concerned with make-up, fashion, products, high heels or flattering neck lines. They are so supremely practical, they are not interested in playing host to such frivolous notions. My mother is still waiting for when I get a real job.
I envy them sometimes; even though their abstinence lacks the electric zing of a brand new tube of vermilion vengeance lipstick. Their refusal to be defined by the often demanding, demeaning, and deluding aspects of coral shimmer narcissism makes them absolutely gorgeous with a kind of freedom my own regimens don’t make room for.
Anyway, the point is, these two leading ladies in my life had nothing to offer me in the way of beauty wisdom, so I had to cut through the thicket of self-expression with my own uninformed wits. Definite disasters ensued.
The jungles of sartorial uncertainty, rife with dainty dangers
My whole life, I had built up this mud splattered, bruise bearing, basketball playing, tough-girl-Tom-boy attitude; when the compunction to look pretty hit me somewhere around 15, the whole concept was intimidating, alarmingly alien, and utterly confusing.
Before Beauty Blogs
Now, you have to bear in mind that at the time, there was no Pinterest, no Youtube tutorials, no beauty blogs. I grew up in a po-dunk small town in the middle of conservative Nowhere America, and so my inspirations were limited to trees and cows and the celebrity mags near the check out at the grocery store that my mother really didn’t allow me to read.
Lucky girls had subscriptions to Teen Cosmopolitan, but we didn’t have the money for that and I would’ve been way too mortified to be seen reading such a girly mag anyway. We didn’t have a computer at home, and the school machines were obsessively monitored, with anything useful was usually kept under strict lock-and-key.
Hormones and Desperation
My first eye shadow compact was a pink and pearl mix, about twenty years old, and already used enough that the shiny silver plate under the packed powder was visible to about the size of a nickel. I found it at the back of the cupboard under the sink, covered in the slightly sticky film that things in the bathroom always seem to get after a long time. It smelt funny and was a fairly obscene shade of fuchsia, but I was into it.
One of my friends introduced me to the concept of liquid eyeliner, which pretty well blew my mind. I was so intensely needy of this modern wonder that I spent $7 on a tiny pot of the stuff, feeling like I’d just taken out my first mortgage.
Naturally, I used far, far too much of it, in every shape of asymmetry you can think of.
It was not good.
I can only imagine what my mother must’ve been thinking.
My actual face
The ritual became religious. It took me two hours to get ready in the morning; I would sit on the bathroom counter with my feet in the sink, blaring out my radio, snapping at anyone else who dared to knock on the door with their inferior needs.
I did this for so many years, that I actually developed a divot in the lower right side of my right leg, where it rested against the lip of the sink all those mornings.
The indent was obvious enough that people asked me what was wrong – and that lasted until I was well into my twenties.
Sinkhole if ever there was one
Eventually, the liquid liner of dreams started to dry out. I added water to it, which made it a slightly gloppier version of itself, but I made it last for quite a while like that – no doubt contributing to the already cringe worthy state of affairs on my face.
When it finally ran out in earnest, I didn’t have the money to buy any more; I resorted to using a mechanical pencil dipped into my mascara tube to continue on with the Gothic massacre of my eyes.
It was not until I was firmly into my twenties that I could actually afford decent make-up, and didn’t need to rely on my stationary drawer for assistance. With a bit of confidence, a bit more money, and some formal beauty education, I finally managed to get it together. Mostly.
Creating Beauty Despite the Past, Present, or Future
Years of my life were spent in fear, doubt, loneliness, my bones rattling with uncertainty and self loathing.
And I don’t want that for you.
This is MegaBeauts. Where you and me and everyone else can be just totally juiced up on the weird, real, backward, not sure, round-the-houses, frenzied world of beauty as it occurs to us everyday. And take all that mess and find our power in it. Take back our brains because we smart mamas. Take back our bodies because we strong bitches. Take back our beauty because we own that shit.
Tell me. Was your ugly duckling story simply awful? Did you try and wear a paper bag over your head to hide the worst haircut (that you gave yourself)? Was being fifteen the most frightening experience you’ve ever had?