vs. Au Naturale

STORY BY NICOLE CANTANESE PORTRAITS BY GEORGE HOLZ

As a beauty editor at several top magazines, the concepts of “youth” and “glamour” have been more than my job. They are my religion, complete with their own daily demonstrations of devotion. I love feeling pretty— and I always have—so it has never been much of a chore to practice what I preach—a.k.a. staying current with skin innovations and makeup offerings.

That said, would I ever leave home with undone hair and zero makeup? I don’t think so. Even when headed to the gym or out for a quick errand, I’ll rely on tinted lip balm, under eye concealer, and smoothing cream to tame my hair. One day, however, I was running late and absolutely, utterly unable to complete my laborious regimen. I proceeded to completely unravel. It was out of my hands; I had to face the world without doing my face. And I had a total meltdown.

It was then that the realization hit me: I was that woman so dependent on makeup and product that an errant blemish or split-end would tap a profound source of insecurity. What’s so wrong about the face I was born with, and the hair my ancestors passed down to me? As a little girl—and well into my teens—I felt good enough. I knew that I was pretty enough. At some point that all changed, without my realizing. Suddenly I was mad, really mad.

The time was nigh to see how long I could go without my beloved beauty products. I set out—in January, no less—to see how the world would receive the strippeddown “me.” That first night, I simply brushed my teeth and rinsed my face. This was the face I’d present to my world for the next 14 days—see-through eyelashes, super-pale skin, and unruly hair (that would never have been blonde in the middle of winter without a colorist).

The next day proved challenging to my anti-product revolution. New York Fashion Week was roiling the city, sending hordes of style-obsessed fashionistas to every neighborhood I cared about. They were coiffed and painted; they were everywhere. I wasn’t wearing moisturizer. Dismayed yet determined, I proceeded with my day.

That night, I opted not to wash my face. The next morning I woke to dry, raw-feeling skin. I took a quick shower, dried myself off, and found myself staring longingly at my La Prairie body cream. Normally I’d apply it liberally from stem to stern, but today I simply pulled on my jeans and ignored the scraping of fabric against my legs. For a few days, I would find myself mindlessly reaching for the lip gloss at the bottom of my bag. It was difficult to forego the boost of tinted shine, but I persevered. Painted lips were always easy, but this untouched face—now exposed to the world for 48 hours—started to feel like freedom.

One evening at a party, I made no mention of this experiment , and no one seemed to notice. Wait, I thought. Do they think I’ve always looked like this? Later, in line for the restroom, a handsome and age-appropriate man stepped next to me and smiled. “How’s your night tonight?” he asked. We proceeded to engage in some world-class small talk and—unless I’m crazy—he was flirting with me. Minutes later, as I stared into the restroom mirror, it hit me: There are those guys who go in for painted perfection. And then there are other guys— great guys, at that—who prefer a more natural look. By loosening the reins on my outside appearance, I was sending a more easygoing, approachable vibe to those around me. My experiment was somehow becoming a win-win situation.

By the end of the week, however, I was really missing my old “look.” A publicist friend and I were dining at our favorite West Village spot, and I couldn’t stop focusing on her Bordeaux lips and long black lashes. These attributes are primal components of feminine allure— hence, the application of mascara and lipstick. In the battle of the sexes, women like my friend rule victorious, and man, that can be fun. But wait, has validation from the opposite sex played a larger role in this than I realized?

I turned to some guys at a nearby table—bankers types giving off a real “love ’em and leave ’em” vibe—and asked for their perspective on my little experiment. “You must have some amazing genes,” responded one of them, sounding downright genuine. “You’re gorgeous.” Now, he could’ve been lying We’ve all been fibbed to, at one time or another, by a slick guy like this. But it felt real. More important than his opinion was mine: Yes, I do have great genes. And dammit, I am gorgeous—without a stitch of makeup.

Two weeks later, my makeup hiatus had concluded. It was cold and snowy, and I had a dinner to attend. This was it—I’d gone au naturale for what felt like eons, and the time had come to introduce La Prairie back into my life.

I smothered my skin with the rich, moisturizing cream and reveled in its TLC. I swept on a small bit of mascara and applied some sheer pink lip balm. Why, hello there. It was a blissful moment, yes, but all the more blissful thanks to my newfound knowledge: “Made-up me” is just one of my shades. As the years go by, my imperfections tell me who I am and remind me of the life I’ve lived. It’s all part of the big, beautiful picture.

I thought about curling my hair, but stopped myself. I was fine as is—better than fine—and would be from here on out. l

GLAM BE DAMNED: Our beauty adventurous hits the town; gets her flirt on without her usual armor (success!); takes her specs out of hiding; and foregoes shampoo for a slicked-back bun.