My Year Without Deodorant

A few months ago I did this thing that I’m a little bit mortified by. I agreed to be in a promotional photoshoot for my educational institution. I was offered a gift voucher to do it. A very tempting, valuable gift voucher. And it was barely worth how much I hate having my photo taken. I was in my work uniform doing that thing they make you do where you act natural, laugh at nothing, holding a pot plant and skip, but also look pretty and approachable and like you enjoy going to school. Strangely though, the most awkward part of the day was telling the hairdresser/makeup lady that I wanted minimal makeup and please don’t put anything in my hair because I have given up all mass produced beauty products. And when she asked why, I just couldn’t tell her. Because here’s the thing: sometimes I do things which seem profound, but have literally no ideology behind them. This year I stopped using conditioner in my hair (only using a natural shampoo bar weekly), face wash, body wash, lip balm, spray on deodorant (making my own deodorant instead out of bicarb soda and beeswax) and all makeup. I also cut all of the dye out of my hair and have stopped using moisturisers. I do still brush my teeth though, thanks for asking. I started this in January, wrapping up about a month ago when I bought some mascara (oh-lala!), only deviating once to wear makeup to a concert. I didn’t look better than I used to, it made me no happier or sadder than I ever was, and I literally have no fucking idea why i did it. So join me as I unpack why I embarked upon this weird, secret and personal journey.

Perhaps I’ve been in the mountains too long (maybe). This really would explain the very hippie notion of giving up all sodium lauryl sulfate products and making your own deodorant. Although, I know this can’t 100% be the case because firstly, this is the first time I’ve told people I stopped using beauty products (and surely at the crux of being a vocal advocate for any cause is constantly badgering people with said cause) and also, sometimes I have taken to dabbing on a bit of the Justin Bieber perfume Lucy gave me for lols when I want to feel special, but I wear it seriously, because it smells pleasant.

It could be supreme laziness (highly likely). My mornings are busy, someone laughed at me recently for listing “having to get myself dressed” as a stressor in my day to day life, but seriously, it is. It was also stressful having enough pockets to fit my snacks and conversely, finding snacks that fit in the pockets of my work clothes. And do eyelashes that look a few mil longer really enhance my looks that much that they’re worth waking up ten minutes earlier for? Doubtful.

It could be that I want to work on my personality (less likely). It continually horrifies me that there are infinite programs on TV where people's looks are being tweaked, their hair styled, their clothes updated and their weight reduced, but there are literally no shows where people learn how to be a less shit person. And I mean, really, there are so many good looking but supremely shitty people out there. Just once I’d love to see a show where friends nominate Sarah from Petersham for being a total cunt and who claims that “girls don’t like her” when in actual fact she’s just awful, one-upping bitch. But in a wondrous, transformative event the personality stylists work on how she talks to people, her tone of voice and demeanor and suddenly she stops constantly having issues with other girls. Or Carl from The Shire, who starts talking to people at parties, but they always leave to “get a drink” and never come back. However, after a session with the raconteur-ship coach, his storytelling is vastly improved, he can discuss interesting topics and then identify when people are tiring of him, shut up and leave before they have to. Can someone please make that a show? What I’m trying to say, in a roundabout way, is that maybe I stopped jazzing up my average looks, stripping back all the artifice so I can just been seen for my dazzling personality. I just don’t want any distractions from the witty quips which I read in memes and then say to you like I’ve come up with them myself.

It could be that I am embarrassed by people ever talking about my looks (highly likely). I am mortified when people ever mention my looks. I don’t think I’m bad looking, but it’s not like I’d do well on Tinder, where your looks are the hook. I really need people to get to know me before they truly love me. With me, it’s all in the stature and the sarcasm, and I just don’t think I can convey that in an image. I specifically hate it if people notice I’ve done something to my appearance; if I cut my hair and someone comments for example, I’ll frantically try and explain it away as a functional change rather than a vain one (“it’s too hot to have it long in summer!” “The ends were dead!”). It’s definitely from this devil-may-care-about-enhancing-your-looks vantage point that I love looking at other people’s profile pictures. I love the way you all choose to convey who you are in one static image, and I spend hours poring over them, analysing your inner workings. Profile pictures are the best way to get a glimpse inside someone’s head and see how they perceive themselves. Our profile pictures are the one image where we think we look our best. The face you’re making is the look you think is your hottest, whatever you’re doing (adventuring, partying, parenting) is how you see your personality in its most favourable light, and if your photo is never of you, or if every profile picture has a snapchat filter, I am hesitant about continuing a friendship with you. I’m looking specifically at those people who edit out the flower crown. Mate, we know your eyes aren’t that big or your skin that flawless, we’ve seen you in life you dweeb. And, tearing apart my own clumsy parade of profile pictures, I either look like a little baby hooker (hi 2007) or more recently, it seems my idea of Maz looking like a total babe is me eating multiple chocolate sundaes or climbing a tree, in both instances I just want people to see me for my carefree and rapscallion actions and not necessarily in my best physical light. I suppose sometimes I get so stressed out about how impossible it is to compete with all the beautiful girls in the world that I figure it’s just easier to take myself out of the beauty game and just dazzle people with cool facts I’ve learnt, or be cruel to them and hope it reverse psychologyingly makes them love me.

Maybe I just don’t give a fuck (most likely of all). I maintained this minimal beauty routine through my pregnancy and perhaps, as signaled by my giving up running as a hobby approximately forty minutes after I saw those two pink lines, I just wanted to go into my shell, be left alone and, in Cardi B’s immortal words, “girl, just let me fat”. Since growing George, I’ve been less interested in how attractive I am, less eager for all the boys in the world to have a crush on me to fuel my ego* and consequently just gave up on trying to mildly improve my average looks in lieu of eating blocks of feta cheese and watching old episodes of Gossip Girl.

*My ego hasn’t entirely disappeared though, and the comments on this blog are anonymous, so if you do have a crush on me please comment below.

To conclude, I don’t know what I was doing for a year, no longer trying to gussy myself up on the reg, but I do know that, that fucking photoshoot was all in vain. Because somehow I managed to put that gift voucher, unused, in the toaster and toast it until it was a wizened little slip of a thing. Sort of like me at the moment, sans beauty products.