What I Gained When I Gave It All Up - Barefaced Skincare Rebel

A Freckled, Barefaced, Pixie-cut Middle Finger to the Beauty Decree

A friend encouraged me to write this because I’m a barefaced skincare rebel.I’ve got nothing against anyone who genuinely enjoys makeup. If it makes you feel good—paint it, blend it, bedazzle it. You do you. But for those of us who are flat-out tired of the whole beauty-industrial complex… this post is for you. Just one woman’s take. So here goes.

I haven’t worn makeup since most people were still rewinding VHS tapes. I stopped coloring my hair over a decade ago because it was a financial shakedown disguised as “self-care.” Now, I cut my own hair with clippers, in my own bathroom, with better results than any overpriced stylist ever gave me. I don’t own foundation, blush, eyeshadow, lipstick, or whatever $90 miracle potion is trending this month. And my skincare? Made by a barefoot hippie or straight outta my pantry.

And here’s what I gained when I gave it all up: Time. Money. Sanity. Autonomy. A clear face and an even clearer conscience.

💄 THE GREAT LIE: BEAUTY AS A BURDEN

They told us we needed it. Had to have it. Because ‘that’s what women do.‘ The right mascara. The perfect brow pencil. The high-end serum made from fermented Himalayan unicorn horns.

They told us we wouldn’t be taken seriously unless we looked “put together”—which, of course, meant painted, powdered, and hiding the parts that offended someone else’s delicate expectations.

One day, I looked around a joint executive and department meeting and did the math. There were six women, including me. Every single one of them—except me—was fully made up: foundation, lipstick, the whole nine yards. We were outnumbered by men two to one. Funny thing, though—not a single man wore makeup. If they don’t have to, why should I?

I’m over 50. Okay—fine, 57, if we’re being technical. Which we are, because my skincare routine now includes clippers and zero apologies.

I was born with freckles, not just a few—freckles that unionize in the sun. I don’t tan. I morph. And if I ever tried to hide them under a bottle of foundation, my skin would riot.

At some point, I asked the question nobody wants us to ask: What if I’m not broken? What if the world’s idea of “fixing” me is just a very expensive way of shutting me up? Or hustling cash out of my pocket.

✂️ THE DAY I FIRED MY HAIRDRESSER

I used to pay stupid (read SERIOUS stupid) money for haircuts that never made me feel like me. I'd sit in that chair, listening to small talk and silently praying she wouldn't roundhouse my bangs or give me “volume” I didn’t ask for.

One day I said screw it. Bought clippers. Watched YouTube. I stood in front of my mirror, buzzed the sides, and grinned like a woman who just reclaimed her passport from the embassy of other people’s opinions. My better half gave me the thumbs up, and told me to party on. (He’s a Grammy-winning, multi-platinum songwriter – if he says “party on” he knows what he’s talking about, and it comes with a helluva tune.)

Now? I rock a pixie cut like a rebel. Nobody puffs my ego by telling me I look great (before I walk out of the salon). I don't wait for appointments. I don't tip anyone and grumble about it later. My head is mine. And it looks damn good. If I do say so myself.

THE $500 BATHROOM DRAWER I NEVER NEEDED

You know what’s in my skincare routine?

• Raw North Dakota honey.

• A face cream made by a woman who probably owns more tie-dye than most yoga studios.

• Some avocado oil.

• Maybe a little bakuchiol, because I read the research and it doesn’t burn like Satan’s eyelash glue.

I don’t want 27 steps. I want results that don’t come with a marketing team and a truckload of shame. I want skin that reflects how I live: clean, strong, unrushed, unfiltered, unimpressed.

NOT COVERAGE—JUST COURAGE

They say, “You look like marvelous.”I say, “Bullshit.”I look like a woman who walked away from a system built to drain her wallet and sell her shame. That glow you see? It’s called not giving a damn.

I don’t apologize for my bare face. I don’t miss the sting of mascara in my eyes or the weirdly crunchy feeling of foundation by noon. I don’t cover the lines life gave me. I wear them.

SUNSCREEN? I WEAR A HAT

I don’t slather on chemicals that make me itch. I wear long sleeves. I wear sunglasses. I wear shade like a second skin. Because I don’t care what SPF the tube says—I trust my instincts more than their labels.

SO WHAT DID I REALLY GAIN?

Let me spell it out:

• TIME – No more wasted hours on contouring tutorials or decoding ingredient lists.

• MONEY – Thousands saved over the years. Literally thousands. For what? A fantasy? A lie?

• SELF-TRUST – I know what works for me. And I trust it.

• SELF-CONTROL – These are my decisions. If I screw it up, it’s on me, and I’ll correct it.

• POWER – Nobody owns my reflection but me. And I’m not offended by it.

• AUTHENTICITY – When people see me, they’re seeing me. Not the product of an industry.

  
  

MY RALLY CRY

To every woman sick of the pressure, the cost, the noise:

You are not failing by opting out. You are not invisible without makeup. You are not “letting yourself go.” You are letting yourself be.

So here’s to the barefaced, pixie or buzzcut women. The ones who walk past the beauty aisle like it’s a haunted house—and maybe flip it the bird on the way out. The ones who don’t need filters, highlighters, or permission. The ones who looked at the system and said:

“Nah. I’m good.”

Cheers, ladies. Peace out. Respect—and cyber hugs to you all,

TH.Malcolm