About Face
I’ve never looked at my face so much as I have in the last year or so. It used to be that I’d go days without knowing what I actually looked like as I went about my business. Oh, sure--I’d catch a glimpse in the rearview mirror if I was driving or maybe see my reflection in a store window or the bathroom mirror in a restaurant, but not on purpose. I was always too hard on myself--and my looks--to spend much time regarding my image for too long.
At this point in my life, though, I think a deep dive into the psychology of why I don’t think I’m pretty is a waste of my time. I was brought up with the specters of the dual-Carolines--Princess and Kennedy--as the bar to which I was supposed to ascend. These so-called peers represented everything my mom wanted for me--poise, beauty, education, maybe marrying a prince . . . a kingdom. I learned early on that there was not a chance in in hell that I’d ever grow up to be either one of these paragons of beauty and charm, so I kept my head down and hoped to not draw any attention to myself.
Other than the Carolines, I don’t recall any real pressure to “look good” (thank god . . .) when I was growing up. We were who we were and much of that philosophy was handed down by my maternal grandmother, Nana. As the story goes Nana only looked at herself in the mirror once a day. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, combed her hair and announced to her reflection, “You’re beautiful!” and that was that.
And that used to be me--until this past year. I had to get used to looking at myself because of Zoom. Or Blackboard. Or Teams. Sometimes I was only attending a meeting and I could mute the sound and video. But sometimes I was the presenter, or the teacher, or the featured speaker! The thin blue indicator light on my camera would light up and suddenly there I was--staring at my face. Again. Which always prompts observations like: What is my hair doing? Did I not get any sleep last night? My eyes look terrible! What’s going on under my chin? Is it moving? What are those red spots? Am I breaking out??
Since constantly looking at myself over the last 12 months, I’ve become acutely, almost painfully, aware of my appearance. I’ve noticed things like my hair is either thinning around my temples or it just keeps getting yanked out when I push my glasses up and down on my head. It’s also taken on kind of a Bride of Frankenstein cowlick that I can’t do anything with, so I usually just put it up in a bun. My complexion appears to be more of a pasty white than the peaches and cream color I imagine it to be and my eyes seem to be sinking into my skull. I also realized pasty white requires lipstick; which is a cosmetic I rarely have, hardly use and have no idea what color to get. Thank God I’m only seen from the waist up or I’d have to take uncomfortable inventory of the rest of my body and there’s only so much of myself I can stand.
One day, I took at least 10 selfies the morning before a class to make sure I was looking at the right spot on the monitor. I wasn’t. I looked like a crazy person staring heavenward waiting for the ascension. My background looks good; the obligatory books and knickknacks a writer should have, but mostly I appear as a recently released inmate from an underground bunker. Which, to be honest, I am: my office is in the basement of our house.
I have gotten used to it; albeit begrudgingly. Video communication is a necessary evil for now and maybe for some time going forward. I’ve adopted some tricks so as not to look like some creepy old lady peering out warily hoping to avoid detection A Facebook friend posted a picture of her computer which has a pair of googly-eyes stuck near the camera to remind her to look up, so I added my own hand-drawn reminder to remember to look at the “person” to whom I’m speaking. I splurged on one of those fancy halo lights and I have a small mirror and a comb close at hand. And a lipstick, too. I think it’s pink.
Getting therapy about dealing with how I look would insist that I look more closely at who really wanted to be a princess and I already know it was my mom’s fantasy. She imagined her life as Grace or Jackie--if I was Caroline, it could have been either. I don’t need a therapist to tell me I should be okay with my face--at my age, I already am. Or at least I’m trying to be. I just don’t need to look at it that often.