If any of you saw Greta Gerwig’s Lady Bird this winter—you know that a mother’s words have the power to sting. I’ve never related to a scene more than when Lady Bird and her mother go shopping for a prom dress. When Lady complains the gown she’s trying on is too tight, without missing a beat, her mother replies, “Well, I suggested you not have that second helping of pasta.” Everyone can pinpoint a moment like this in their childhood, that searing comment that forever shapes the way you view your body, and thus yourself. But for me, it wasn’t in a dressing room. My awakening came at the Bobbi Brown makeup counter, the day my mother let me know my truth: I have oily eyelids.
In fairness to my mother, she didn’t necessarily say it outright. But the subtext was for sure there. While other girls were shopping for that perfect purple eyeshadow hue to wear to the middle school dance, my mother guided me over to the beige palette and suggested that it might “help with the excess oil.” Confused, I let the makeup artist give me a 12-year-old’s version of a neutral smoky eye, then remark, “This really helps with the discoloration.” There it was, the one-two punch. Not only were my eyelids greasy, they were also discolored?!
The color of my eyelids has never really bothered me. Sure, I’ve played around with the gold shades of a Naked Palette or two in my life, but I’ve never thought it made that much of a difference. But my greasy eyelids have haunted me since that fateful Bobbi Brown day.
That's thing about body hang-ups, no matter how big or small, they have the power to totally warp your sense of self.
I know what you’re thinking: This girl is complaining about eyelids? I once had a friend—who is now a wildly successful model, mind you—complain to me that she had “fat ankles.” As someone whose ankles swell every time I have more than two glasses of rosé in the summer, I know what fat ankles look like, and those were not them. But that's thing about body hang-ups, no matter how big or small. They're personal, maybe not always the most rational, and have the power to totally warp your sense of self.
Soon after the makeup counter incident, my entire seventh-grade class went through puberty. Pimples and grease galore! There wasn’t a ladies' bathroom in the entire building that didn’t have three girls examining the shine on their T-zones at all times. But when it was my turn at the mirror, I’d feign concern for my pores, pretend to look at my nose, and then go straight for the eyes. I’d dab them with a paper towel and splash some water on my face. During class I’d quickly run my index finger over each lid, wiping off any extra film that might have accumulated throughout the day—a habit that served me far beyond my middle school years.
As I've gotten older, I've mostly learned to accept my reflective eyelids for what they are: Just a small irk that only I notice. Sometimes at parties I’ll still catch my finger swiping across my eyelid like a phantom tick. But now I swat my hand away and remind myself to chill.
