A butch at the Make-Up Counter

If there’s one thing I love about my editor at Curve, it’s that she understands a butch. See, it’s time for us to shoot some new publicity photos and Ms. Editor had to break the news to me that my skin tone is not even and I need, well a bit of artificial augmentation. Don’t worry, she said, no one will be able to tell you’re wearing make-up.

I strutted into Nordstrom’s right when they opened, in my jeans and black t-shirt. I wanted them to see the real me. I remember the last time I wore make-up. It was my freshman year in college and I let a friend make me up to go to a party. I wasn’t quite sure of my sexuality yet. Suddenly, I had all this attention from guys, like I never had before. But I HATED it. Not just because I was a budding homosexual, but because I felt like who they were attracted to wasn’t the real me. When I got back to my dorm, I threw all their numbers away and scrubbed my face clean. I haven’t touched mascara (or a man) since.

At the Mac counter, I searched for a fag to help me, surely, he’d understand. But there were none to be found. So I grabbed a young rebel girl with dyed blonde hair with two vastly different make up styles on each side of her face.

“I need some make up,” I mustered out. “But it can’t be too feminine. I have to look like a tomboy.” Thankfully, this girl seemed to understand as clearly as if I’d worn my “I Lick Labias” t-shirt. “We’ll just even your skin tone out,” she said. “And some light mascara to bring your eyes out.” I was thankful she didn’t make me sit in a chair while she applied different shades and colors of god-knows what to my face. The other women in the store seemed to be enjoying their make-overs.

I said yes to the first thing she suggested and was out of there in ten minutes, trying to hide the bag under my armpit as I walked through the men’s department, eyeing the new Fall shoes.

_{$72 worth of butch make-up}