Personal Narrative-Sponge-Dolls
My mother has always had a lot of rules. I could not watch SpongeBob, I could not play with Bratz Dolls, and I could not have my own phone until high school. However, my mother also has a clever daughter. Watch SpongeBob? At my grandmother's house. No Bratz dolls? Barbie dolls are fine substitutes. And my postponed usage of a cell phone? In 6th grade I became the neighborhood go-to babysitter and made enough cash to go to Verizon and pay for the phone myself. But there was one rule my mother had for me that I could not seem to get around. One day, when I was 12 years old, I came to school and my friend looked a little different. “It’s makeup, Nia,” she said. “I’m a woman.” So when I came home on that sunny school day, I was excited to have
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I could not wear makeup until I was 16 years old. “16 years old? That’s so far away!” I protested with my heart once again broken by another impeding ordinance. I was forced to go through middle school bitterly staring at my friends in the bathroom as they put on their glittery, enchanting lip gloss. Coming into high school, I would get questions about my bare face and have to explain that my mother did not allow me to wear makeup until I reached the glorious age of 16. Maybe I could have secretly worn it at school, but I walked to school with friends so from the moment I left the house, my naked face was exposed. Not to mention, I later learned that puberty is not a conspiracy theory, that is definitely real, and along with it came its infamous side effect: “pimples.” People saw my face, no makeup and all, and whenever I had acne or my annual sprout of eczema, those traits carried with me in every conversation. It was rough. I would wonder, where was the excitement that makeup could provide me with? Where was the glamor I wished for? Then finally the big day came. I already had a list full of cherished makeup products that I had been waiting to finally purchase on my 16th
I could not wear makeup until I was 16 years old. “16 years old? That’s so far away!” I protested with my heart once again broken by another impeding ordinance. I was forced to go through middle school bitterly staring at my friends in the bathroom as they put on their glittery, enchanting lip gloss. Coming into high school, I would get questions about my bare face and have to explain that my mother did not allow me to wear makeup until I reached the glorious age of 16. Maybe I could have secretly worn it at school, but I walked to school with friends so from the moment I left the house, my naked face was exposed. Not to mention, I later learned that puberty is not a conspiracy theory, that is definitely real, and along with it came its infamous side effect: “pimples.” People saw my face, no makeup and all, and whenever I had acne or my annual sprout of eczema, those traits carried with me in every conversation. It was rough. I would wonder, where was the excitement that makeup could provide me with? Where was the glamor I wished for? Then finally the big day came. I already had a list full of cherished makeup products that I had been waiting to finally purchase on my 16th