Spring 2025 - Vol. 22, Issue 2

My newest obsession is watching women do their makeup on TikTok. I wish I didn’t enjoy it as much as I do, but I find it informative, educational, and relaxing. I have to say I am surprised that I enjoy it. I am studying feminist theory for my dissertation, and I often teach my students about the Suffragettes and the gender gap. But I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised because I have a different kind of relationship with femininity.

Something I inherited from my mom that I didn’t notice until I got older was her style. When I was younger, I saw it as vanity. My mother never left the house without her hair done, her makeup perfect, and her cloud of perfume. I didn’t see it until my twenties, but I see the resemblance when I look in the mirror. I don’t have the same chestnut hair, and I don’t wear the same shade of mauve lipstick, but I have the curse of vanity too.

When I was younger, I was fascinated with how my mother primped and prepped herself for the day. To this day, I have never seen another woman take care of her body the way my

mother did. My mother had this large three-piece mirror in her room that sat atop her dresser. I would follow her to her room after she showered. Through the crack in the door, I would watch

her take off her robe and begin her routine. The fluffy white cloud of baby powder she would pat on her chest floated around her while she combed her wet hair. I never saw her apply any product to her hair, but she always kept it tangle-free by constantly brushing it. She kept a small travel brush in her pocketbook for last-minute touch-ups.

After applying her powder, she took an elegant jar of cream and rubbed it all down her arms and legs, around her stomach to her back, and up to her breasts. She would rub the lotion into her breasts as she watched herself in the mirror. On top of her dresser was what I used to call her potions. After getting dressed, she would spray her perfume onto her clean, dry chest and always a dab on her wrists. She had the bottles with the squeeze puff on the end. When she wasn’t looking, I would hold them up in the mirror and pretend to squeeze them, afraid to apply the perfume to my body and be caught by the aroma.

The last step was her makeup. I would stare in amazement as she took her time applying blush, eye shadow, and layers of mascara. Lastly, she would lean close and stare in the mirror as she applied her lipstick and blotted with a tissue. I rarely saw my mother without lipstick.

As I grew older, I was plagued with acne-prone skin. Over the years, I learned how to conduct my own nightly regimen. I bought my elixirs and potions, and filled my medicine cabinet just as she had filled the top of her dresser. I take my time in the morning applying my skincare and makeup; I follow some of the routines I have learned from TikTok. These are my only tutorials because although I watched my mother apply her makeup, she never taught me. My mother left when I was 12. She decided that she no longer wanted to be a mother.

This is why I spend hours watching videos of women explaining their haircare or skincare routine online. I appreciate the value they bring to women like me. I had to teach myself how to braid my own hair; I learned the hard way that I could over-pluck my eyebrows and that bleaching my hair will lead to less hair over time. My relationship with my femininity is something I struggle with because it isn't something I felt comfortable with as a young woman.

After my mom left, I was raised by my dad. As a single father, he did an amazing job,

and I wouldn’t have wished for it any other way. My dad was the first feminist I ever met.

My dad told me at a young age that I could be whatever I wanted. He explained that if people work hard, they can achieve anything. He never made me feel as a woman that I couldn’t do something. Jo Ann Arinder explains feminist theory as:

“Feminism is concerned with the constructs of intersectionality, dimensions of social life, social inequality, and social transformation. Through feminist research, lasting contributions have been made to understanding the complexities and changes in the gendered division of labor. Men and women should be politically, economically, and socially equal and this theory does not subscribe to differences or similarities between men, nor does it refer to excluding men or only furthering women’s causes. Feminist theory works to support change and understanding through acknowledging and disrupting power and oppression.”

My dad never went to college. He didn’t study philosophy, sociology, or even know what feminism theory is, but my dad lived these principles without ever studying them.

“I graduated from the school of life.” He often repeats with pride. He applauded the loudest at my undergraduate graduation and again at my graduate graduation. He never once thought I couldn’t accomplish something I set my mind to. My dad didn’t see the difference between my brother and me. He wanted both of us to succeed.

I expected to be taught how to be a woman by my mother. When she left, I wasn’t sure how I would learn about the complexities of the female body. My dad did his best to take care of what she never did.

On the surface my dad doesn’t seem like the kind of man to teach his daughter about being a feminist. He is the stereotypical blue collar uniform job kind of guy. After my mon left he had to pick up a few extra jobs. He wasn’t always around after school or on the weekends. My favorite memory from my childhood is his continued support. Showing up to my dance recitals and recording my routines on his video camera. Based on the little red light shining from the Sony camcorder, I always knew where he was sitting. Teaching me to ride my bike. His big, cracked, and blistered hands held the seat tight while I peddled along the sidewalk. Those same hands changed my diaper and built the roads we drive on. He was a hard worker. He worked just as hard at being a dad.

Each job had a different uniform. When he delivered oil on the weekends, it was brown pants, a gray shirt, and a dark brown jacket. When he worked during the week, it was navy utility pants and a light blue shirt with a matching navy Carhart jacket. When he worked nights, it was a black suit and slicked-back hair; the funny chauffeur hat always made me laugh. My dad never liked wearing a suit but his customers who he drove into the city expected it.

So many years have passed since the nights as a kid waiting for dad to drive the limo home and fighting back sleep so I could sit in the back seat. But I still remember the excitement as he would drove around the corner and let me play with the lights and the electric divider. Some weekends he would have to work instead of coming to my softball games, and he missed most back to school nights, but I always knew where he was going based on the uniform he was wearing.

There were times when there wasn’t much work and he could pick us up from school and take us to our activities. He would make dinner and help us with our homework. One night he fell asleep while he was boiling water for spaghetti. I never thought someone could “burn water,” but he sure found a way to make the house smell for days.

Along with all the different work uniforms; he also wore different hats. He wore his coach hat at my brother’s baseball games. He placed his proud dad hat on when he came to my girl scout events. The mom hat was thrown on when I got my first period, and I hadn’t had “the talk” yet. But my favorite hat was the fun dad hat. He knew my brother, and I were competitive and hated to lose, so he would let me win in Candy Land and help my brother win in Sorry! Those were his best uniforms.

In high school, I made the Varsity Swim team. My meets were in a heated indoor YMCA pool. The highlight was standing up on the sturdy diving block, looking out into the sea of parents, and always finding my dad. In his dirty work boots and layered clothing, just getting off a truck, he would sweat through his shirt by the end of the swim meet.

After my mom left I fell in step with a uniform also. My mom loved to put me in dresses and matching sets of sweaters and skirts. My dad, unaware that he was supposed to guide me when I shopped let me buy whatever I picked out when we went to the store. My new uniform became a tom-boy version of myself. Light pink and baby blue track suits along with jeans and hoodies were used to conceal my growing chest. I also liked to include sweatpants and basketball shorts that were bought from the boys section. I had no experience putting together outfits from the clothes in the “Juniors section” and eventually I grew out of all of my dresses, and I decided that I didn’t want to buy more. My dad, unsure of how to guide me let me always choose my style over the years.

In high school I finally figured out how to wear a bra and hip-hugging jeans and my dad embraced my becoming a young lady journey. He warned me if a skirt was too short or that I needed to put a tank top on under a sheer shirt but he never tried to change my style. The day I emerged from the bathroom, as blonde as Marilyn Monroe, he shook his head and followed me into my room.

“You know your hair is going to fall out if you keep dying your hair.”

As a middle-aged man trying to teach his teenage daughter about her appearance must not have been easy for him. He was concerned with me doing damage to my body.

“Stop blow-drying your hair, it will fall out.”

“Stop popping your pimples, they will get infected.”

“Stop curling your eyelashes, they will break off.”

He had many opinions of the female self-care routine. He always told me I was naturally beautiful and I didn’t need makeup or to dye my hair. But as a teenager, I didn’t accept my appearance, and I wanted to look like everyone else.

My dad grew up in the summer of love era. Women wore their hair natural and wore less makeup or none at all. The Summer of Love and the discussion of sexual freedom led to the 1970s which opened the door to more conversations of freedom. In her News Decoder article Sue Landau explains:

“Contraception became freely available, and laws on abortion and divorce were liberalized in many Western countries. Also in the 1970s, sex discrimination was outlawed, and the principle of equal pay was enacted. These reforms brought droves of women into the labor force in a booming economy that needed more workers, particularly in service industries. Some argue the changes were motivated only by economic and capitalistic logic, not women’s rights.”

He had lived through the start of the Women’s Liberation movement in the 1970s and watched the evolution through the 1980s. When I was born in 1990 he had a log history with feminist and women’s equality.

But he also knew that this was my journey and I needed to travel it alone. Without a mom to teach me that if you don’t time Nair just right it will burn your skin, I learned these lessons on my own. He guided me through things when he could but he never overstepped his dad boundries. He did his best to teach, not control. To this day I appreciate his approach. Feminist theory explains that:

“Gender socialisation is the process of learning what constitutes gender-appropriate behaviours and attitudes. Gender socialisation begins at birth and is intensified during adolescence and adulthood through social structures, such as families, peers and communities, and institutions, including cultural and social norms, media, and political structures. The idea of gender as deeply rooted in stereotypes about the appropriate behaviour, roles, and values means that these ideas are pervasive and absorbed even if people oppose them.”

Although I went to high school during a pre-social media world there were still many influences around me that showed the expectations of a young woman. Movies, TV, Magazines, and the girls at school all followed the stereotypical societal expectations. Over time I fell into the trap of wanting to look like everyone else. My dad didn’t get why I had to have the newest Abercrombie & Fitch jeans or why I begged him to drive me to the mall every weekend. He would remind me to be my own person and not follow what everyone else does. Today I wish I had listened. I was too weak to fight off the influences around me. But today, his lesson replays in my head. I am proud to say I think independently, finally.

I eventually adopted my own uniforms. Because my dad was a single father, this meant I would not be given money for college. I worked hard to get scholarships but waitressing helped pay my tuition. At sixteen, I traded in my childhood for an apron. I didn’t want my education to be my dad’s burden. I wanted to earn my degree not only in the classroom but by being able to afford the bill.

This required working late after school to scrub the milkshake machine and working weekends to serve families ice cream sundaes. I started to understand why my dad worked so much when I was younger. Most Saturdays were spent on my hands and knees, mopping up milk some toddler had dropped with a rag covered in maple syrup and ketchup. I didn’t mind that my job was messy and sometimes degrading. I was working hard, and when I was handed my tips at the end of the shift, I felt I had truly earned them. Every penny I saved went to pay for books and tuition. After a long shift, my feet would ache, and my back was sore, but I had money in my pocket.

Like my dad, I still have two jobs. I am an educator; my college degree got put to good use. But now that I am furthering my education, I am still wearing two uniforms. During the week I wear dress pants and a blazer. Every Saturday and Sunday, I wrap my worn apron around my waist and continue to clean up spilled milk. After sixteen years of waiting tables, I thought I would be done by now, living the better life my father always wanted for me.

“You have to go to college; I don’t want you working multiple jobs like me.”

Only if he had known how much life would cost in 2025.

I moved out of my childhood home, and I bought a house. The second job helps to pay for my education, while my primary salary pays for my mortgage. My dad tried his best to teach me how to fix things so I wouldn’t have to hire someone or how to shop smart at the grocery store.

But what I learned most from my dad is that life is not cheap, and to enjoy it, you have to learn how to cut corners with certain things. Turn the heat off when you leave the house, even if

it kills my house plants. Turn the light off when you leave a room. Take a quick shower because hot water isn’t cheap. My dad was able to take us on a few vacations during my childhood, and I

always wondered if I rushed through my showers if we could go to Disney world that year. Money was always tight, but I wouldn’t change it. It taught me the value of a dollar and how

hard one needs to work for it.

My dad is retired now and spends a lot of his time fixing things up at my house. He no longer comments on my hair but instead asks me if I used mollys when I hung the shelf in my room. He will always be the parent, the only parent, and over the years, he has learned what that entails. Most daughters I know prefer to spend time with their mom, and at times I envy that. But I get to spend time with my dad doing everyday things. We landscape and garden together, build outdoor furniture and fix all of the broken pieces of my house.

I can’t quite imagine what my life would have been like if my mom had stayed. Would I have made fewer mistakes when it came to dating? Would I have chosen a different career path? I don’t know what a “normal household” looks like. My mom didn’t make dinner while my dad mowed the lawn. Feminist Gender socialisation theory suggests, “The portrayal of gender-roles and stereotypes by parents, for example, males performing outdoor work and jobs while females conduct household chores, can program the mindset of children who further internalize biased norms.” I see it as a gift that I grew up without gender stereotypes set by my parents. I do wonder if I would have a different outlook on life if I had grown up in a nuclear family. I don’t know the answers, and part of me doesn’t care. The only question that matters to me is, would my dad still be my best friend? That’s what matters most to me because I wouldn’t trade that for the world.

When I moved home from college, I noticed that my dad had traded in his stained work pants for dark jeans and new sneakers. His shirts were tucked in and void of rips and tattered hems. He had plans on the weekends. As he emerged from the shower, I could smell the Irish Spring soap he had used since I was a young girl; it curled under my door through the gap and filled my room. Mixed with his cologne's spicy musk, this was a signal that my father was once again changing his uniform. He was going out on dates. After years of focusing on his two children, my dad was ready to open up his heart to someone new. I was happy for him. I thought I might feel jealous or territorial. I had his attention for all of these years; I might not want to share it. But once I met his girlfriend, I felt none of those feelings. I was proud of him, and I instantly loved her too.

My dad will turn seventy this year, and although I worry about this, I appreciate the maturity of our relationship. He is wise in a way that isn’t preachy; I am always picking his brain for knowledge. But I am also more mature too.

He reminds me that he won’t be around forever, and that’s the moment I dread the most. I soak up as much of his sunshine as I can. We text almost every day, along with a weekly phone call. But my favorite moments are when I’m sitting at his girlfriend’s dining table, eating a home-cooked meal, drinking a glass of wine, in my comfortable sweatpants, outside of my usual work uniform. 

He always sits across from me wearing jeans and his never-white New Balance sneakers with a plaid shirt or long sleeve crew neck pullover. He has let the gray grow out in his beard, his blonde hair is thinning, but he looks better than I have ever seen him. He looks happy.

I have found someone myself. Someone that allows me to be the feminist I am. He loves that I work hard. He is a hard worker too. He is as or even more hard working than me. Sometimes at night we compete over who is more tired. We just bought a house together and I get to do all of the things I did with my dad in the first house, now with him.

Although I know he doesn’t expect it I like to dress up for him. Over the years of working a full time job I have established a style that consists of dresses, sweaters, and dress pants. I have found comfort in my femininity and I dress in what feels most comfortable to me. I still enjoy sweatpants and wearing my hair in a ponytail but for date night I make sure to look my best.

The TikTok videos have taught me how to wing my eyeliner and fill in my thin eyebrows. But I don’t forget my earliest lesson. I take my time when I get ready. I don’t like the smell of baby powder but I use lotion to moisturize my body after a shower. There is a visceral feeling in my gut when I smell any Avon perfume, which is what my mom used to wear. I have chosen scents with notes of warm vanilla or fresh honeysuckle instead. I don’t have a three piece mirror or a vanity to get ready at but I have my makeup and skincare organized well.

There are many things she didn’t teach me. There were times I thought that and so I missed out by not having a mother in my adolescent years. But I do take the lessons I do have with me. I learned how to work hard and not let anyone tell me what I can and can’t do from my father. Every morning as I lean over into the mirror, I remember my mother. I check my hair and makeup and apply my lipstick; I always blot with a tissue.