Becoming Pizza Face
Hell hath no fury like a middle schooler scorned.
I grew up in a Catholic school, and I can affirm that it is just like every movie depiction. We were held to the highest standard regarding our appearance, and expected to adhere to a strict dress code that insisted upon knee high socks, plaid kilts, and absolutely no makeup.
Unfortunately, my third-grade self was plagued with a nasty case of cystic acne, one that continues to rear its ugly head over a decade later. I was forbidden from wearing any sort of concealer, foundation, or cover-up on school property, and suffered for it. As one can imagine, middle school girls prey on your greatest weakness, and I still shudder when I pass a group of them at the mall.
I was terrorized for my complexion. My mom picked me up from school after picture day in sixth grade, and I was hysterical. My photo was a high-quality snapshot of every pore on my face, and I looked horrendous. I pleaded with her to pay the additional fee for the studio to retouch my face, but what I really needed was a trip to the dermatologist.
After transferring out of my school in eighth grade, I vowed to never leave the house without makeup again. I spent countless appointments with doctors, tried prescription medications, and even entertained the “home remedies” I found online. I paid hundreds of dollars to have a stranger stick needles in my face, and cried when the concealer came off.
Yet, nothing worked.
So, I decided to challenge myself, and venture out into public for the first time in eleven years without it.
I ruled out quitting cold turkey, knowing it would be too much of a shock to my system. Instead, I took baby steps, and went grocery shopping without it on the first day.
Upon leaving my apartment, I avoided all reflections of myself in my car windows and rear-view mirror. I tried to trick my anxiety into believing that I was wearing makeup, and to continue with the same sense of confidence that I usually carry.
But I will admit, my usual strong exterior caved, and I spent the entirety of my shopping trip obsessing over what everyone thought of me, and how I was likely the worst looking person in the store.
I browsed the aisles with my eyes glued to the floor, and once my perishables were bagged and placed in the trunk of my car, I sat in the driver’s seat and cried.
Suddenly, I was placed back in middle school, hiding behind the shower curtain in the locker room while everyone changed into their gym clothes. I could hear the giggles of the popular girls as they inspected my complexion and deemed that, because of my acne, I was forever destined to be at the bottom of the social totem pole.
I realized that this was going to be harder than I thought.
My acne has become a part of my identity, and I‘ve grown accustomed to the backhanded “your skin looks so much clearer” compliment. Every Instagram-worthy photo was heavily edited, and my morning routine consisted of nearly an hour in front of the mirror, trying to hide my blemishes and scars.
I often feel ugly, unattractive, and dirty. It didn’t matter what I tried, my face would still be covered in pimples and cysts. I’ve been told that I am the victim of an unfortunate genetic make-up, but I just think that I am unlucky.
The universe has decided that this is the cross I am destined to bear, and I often worry that I will walk down the aisle on my wedding day with noticeable acne.
I fear that my friends would not recognize me and strangers would gawk in disgust. I have harbored a sense of self-loathing and anxiety over my uncovered complexion, and the thought of people seeing me is enough to make my skin crawl.
And yet, I hope that this may result in becoming a liberating process. One that would convince me that I am just as beautiful without makeup, and the only person who notices my poor complexion is myself.
My next self-appointed task was to turn the camera on myself, just like in sixth grade. But this time, I would not rely on Photoshop to blur out my red spots and pimples.
I work as a photographer — it’s my passion. I take photos of good looking and healthy athletes on a daily basis, and always admire how perfect they are at all times. The reality of having my own lighting equipment and zoom lenses pointed at me is something straight out of my worst nightmares.
I set up my trusted Nikon D750, a camera that feels like an old friend, placed a portrait lens on it, and turned on the self-timer. For the first time, I was my own subject, and I planned to go through my usual work motions that I use when shooting for newspapers, on myself.
This exercise felt immensely more personal. I was alone with my camera, something that I usually joke about being an extension of my arm, and treating myself as one of my work subjects.
I didn’t like the pictures. They’re not something I’d post on Instagram, or set as my profile photo on Facebook.
But, something about them was wildly more intimate than any portrait I’d ever taken. I was able to view myself the way others saw me, and I could still myself, even without makeup.
I realized that I look the same. Maybe not as polished, or put-together, as I usually try to look, but still the same. My smile was identical to when I’m wearing makeup, and I still have my dad’s nose and my mother’s eyes.
Browsing through the photos, I realized that my friends would still recognize me, because my personality still remained. Strangers may notice I have acne, but they’ll also learn that I show two extra teeth when I smile, and that I have a scar in my right eyebrow from when I got stitches at age six.
The most important pieces of me were there, even when the cosmetics were stripped away.
Throughout my life, I have been reliant on my makeup routine. I continue to obsess over how I look, and carry around a small pouch of “emergency cosmetics” in case I need a quick touch-up. I wear makeup to the beach, pool, dermatologist office, and even wake up early at sleepovers to put my face on. I envy the girls with perfect skin, and automatically feel beneath them because I have acne and they do not.
I returned to my project, still reluctant, but a bit more self assured.
I opted to attend one of my classes without makeup, and sifted through my schedule, to decide which day would be the best fit.
On Wednesday, I arrived to my afternoon photography class with a bare face. After a few days or putting my experiment off, I was running out of time, and forced myself to go on campus.
Upon entering the classroom and taking my usual seat in the third row, I was nervous that no one would recognize me, or would no longer want to be my friend.
Instead, I was met with the same greeting from my professor and friends that I always receive when I sit down, and the class went by with no incident.
I realized that no one noticed.
I have spent the last eleven years slaving over my makeup routine and fretting over my complexion and appearance, when in reality, no one noticed when I came to class with my acne on display.
I learned that yes, I do have blemishes, but they’re not my defining feature, and definitely not the first thing people notice about me. I no longer fear going out in public without concealer or foundation on, and in fact, I feel empowered.
The entire world is not made up of cruel, middle school girls. It’s full of people with their own insecurities and standards, and most of the time, they’re too busy worrying about their own problems to even think about anyone else.
I wish I could go back to console my younger self, and tell her the real world is much kinder, but instead, I plan to undo every cruel comment or backhanded remark, and learn to love my face — it’s the only one I get, after all.
