Tell Me a Story

Back when my four-year-old Sofia was just three, she began floating around the house with the most precious spontaneous dance moves. Wanting to encourage her, I signed her up for dance class. I didn’t really know what I was getting into, it turns out.

The dance class itself was a good thing. She appeared to have a rockin’ good time every week. She got exercise, learned new moves, and I’m pretty sure it was there that she grasped the difference between right and left.

For nine months, the class activities marched towards the end-of-the-year recital. A very exciting thing about Recital was the costume: red and white; satin and sequins; polka dots and stripes; sparkly bows; white gloves, and a pillbox hat! She would wear this and dance on a stage under bright lights in front of an audience of hundreds, including her own personal fan club of Mom, Dad and Baby Sis.

The day before the recital, I scanned the studio’s website to see what I needed to do to prepare. The following directive reached out and smacked me in the face:

“For makeup, please have your dancer wear red lipstick, blush, brown eye shadow, and mascara.”

Her instructor had mentioned something about makeup at one of the classes, which I chose to ignore because 1) I had a brand spanking newborn at the time, and was operating in a sleepy haze; and 2) the mention of makeup in conjunction with my preschooler annoyed me. I didn’t have the energy to focus on it because, well…see #1.

But the big day was upon us, and I had to make a decision. Clearly, I had a problem with it. But, maybe I was overreacting? I posed the dilemma to my husband, who said, without pause,

“No. We’re not doing that.”

Relief. One of the things I love about my husband—most of the time—is his decisiveness. We talked about it briefly, agreed it was too soon and basically unnecessary to put makeup on our little girl, who is perfectly beautiful as is.

Makeup wasn’t even on my radar screen when we arrived at the rehearsal the next morning. So, I was visually jarred by the circus that greeted me upon entering the backstage dressing room: Mothers fussing over their tiny dancers before lighted mirrors; applying lip liner, false eyelashes, mascara, bobby pins, hairspray. At nine in the morning.

I reached for my diaper bag, found lip-gloss and dabbed a little on Sofia. The baby began to cry. Spooked, perhaps? No. Hungry. I found a chair in the corner and sat down to nurse. I noticed several girls seated “criss-cross, applesauce” on a blanket, distractedly watching Tangled on a portable DVD player as they colored in their coloring books. Their painted faces—premature visions of the future—were out of sync with their youthful mannerisms as they reached for crayons of different colors.

I had an urge to grab Sofia’s hand and slip out the door. Instead, I hugged her, assured I’d be watching and told her I hoped she’d have tons of fun.

The rehearsal and recital turned out fine, and other than complaints of a stomachache (nerves?), Sofia seemed to have a good experience. She never brought up the makeup.

But I left the auditorium that evening with relief. The whole scene was light years away from the joyful, spontaneous dancing that prompted me to sign her up in the first place. If she wants to continue with it, we will support her. But first, I needed some distance to sort through what was irking me about it.

This was a huge recital. It represented just one of the many dance studios in the DFW metroplex. To my knowledge, the auditorium was booked every night that week with studio recitals. That’s a lot of little girls, a lot of makeup, and a lot of Moms applying makeup. Knowing that I couldn’t be the only parent to wrestle with this issue, I searched the blogosphere to see what opinions were out there. I’ll paraphrase a few from the pro-makeup camp:

Putting makeup on little girls is perfectly fine for a recital. It’s a special occasion. It’s not like you allow it every day. Let ‘em have a little fun!

Stage makeup is necessary to prevent faces from looking washed out under the bright lights.

Parents put makeup on girls for Halloween and don’t think twice about it. What’s the difference?

Well.

Around Halloween, it’s common for adults to crouch down, look a youngster in the face and pose the question, “What are YOU going to be for Halloween?”

I love Halloween, in that it’s a great opportunity for kids to express their unique personalities. A child’s costume wish list is a snapshot of their interests, heroes, and imagination. If their costume is purchased from, say, Wal-Mart, there’s a chance they may “run into themselves” while out trick-or-treating; but, in general, Halloween gives kids a great chance to express individuality while being part of a diverse cast of “characters.” I agree, I wouldn’t think twice about applying makeup to my daughter’s little face if it somehow made her Halloween costume more awesome.

Similarly, if Sofia had a role in a play, or a ballet, I would have no problem with her wearing makeup. I love stories, can’t get enough of them. Stories have purpose. In every story, you have a character who desires something. Something presents an obstacle to that character’s desire; there is a conflict. The character wrestles with that conflict, and in the end, emerges transformed. As the audience or the readers of a story, we, too, are transformed in some way. If applying makeup—even to four year olds—makes characters more believable, if it helps an actor/dancer move others—whether to laugh, cry, or think—there’s purpose in that I like very much.

Contrast that with 10-15 girls of the same age, wearing the same thing, dancing the same dance (which was not part of a larger narrative) smiling through the same red lipstick, blush, brown eye shadow, and mascara.

They were so cute. Absolutely precious. But it seems like the purpose of the recital was to look cute? I don’t think there is anything inherently wrong with looking cute. (If I think I look even remotely cute, it makes me really happy. ☺) I don’t think there is anything wrong with allowing girls to explore and delight in their own beauty. But I do hope to guide my girls towards experiences that link beauty to purposes deeper than just getting “dolled up.”

The “cuteness” factor of the recital hinged too much on the “sameness” factor, for my taste. We only had eyes for our girl, of course, but taking a step back and looking at it on the whole, her class formed a troupe of quasi-identical dancing dolls. Encouraging girls to look the same, with no real story behind it, is a shallow statement about what femininity should be that I just can’t get real excited about.

There, now. I think I’ve figured out what irked me.

I want to preserve the joy in dancing that prompted my little one to whirl around our house. I’d love her to gain confidence, grow stronger, enjoy performing and delight in her own unique beauty. As parents, we live and learn alongside our kids. I didn’t quite know what I was getting into when I signed up for this. It has been a good reminder that an emphasis on physical beauty is a reality of performing arts. Knowing that, we can evaluate the activities my girls choose from with eyes wide open. We can talk with them about beauty and body image. I want to be thoughtful about the kinds of experiences that influence my daughters’ sense of self. Because I love them, and they’ve got a lot of dancin’ days ahead!

Karla is a learn-as-she-goes homemaker, happy wife, proud mama, and freelance writer. She loves mothering her two girls, reading, cooking, eating, exploring, learning and conversing. Writing is her trusty companion.