Candy Apple Kisses: Beauty When We Were Young
When we were kids, my best friend and I received our first glimpse into girlhood. A neighbor dropped off a little box of roll-on lip glosses in an array of fruity flavors. We tried them all, but I gravitated toward the candy apple. If I think about it hard enough, I can still taste it.
Image Courtesy: Pinterest
At the time we had infant skin, wide eyes, and shameless smiles full of teeth. Beauty was the motion of applying makeup like grown-ups. Beauty was slinging a purse over our arms and dressing up for the dance routine that took an entire afternoon to perfect. Can’t forget the fact that we always wore matching costumes, of course.
These memories are sweet. They flood my brain with sensory overload. It was a sugar rush.
When I think about it now, I realize that back then, beauty wasn’t something I ever evaluated. It wasn’t something I measured in the mirror or compared to anyone else. It lived in small sensory things: the waxy shine on my lips, the smell of candy apple, the quiet pride of owning something that belonged to the world of women. Most of all, it was sharing that experience with my best friend, a girl just like me.
The second piece of makeup I ever owned was found in a beige, fading toiletries bag. It was something my mother gave me. I used to sit with her in the bathroom every morning while she got ready and watch her transform.
I don’t even remember exactly what the product was anymore. I only remember the feeling that came with it. When she gave me her empty compacts and powder brushes, I understood something about the difference between her idea of beauty and mine. Even then, my idea of beauty was play. Hers was work.
Looking back now, it feels almost ceremonial. When she handed me that little bag of discarded makeup products, it felt like a small inheritance. I remember holding it carefully, the way you hold objects that carry more meaning than their size suggests. Makeup, after all, belonged to the adults.
When I think about beauty now, I realize how different it felt then. When we were young, beauty was closer to the soul. It lived in smell, color, texture, and the thrill of trying something new. It wasn’t tangled in critique, comparison, or the quiet pressure of being looked at. More importantly, it wasn’t a necessity. It was a privilege and a play.
Don’t get me wrong. I still have fun getting dolled up today. But something about the ritual has changed. I don’t stare at the highlighter on my index finger anymore. I don’t pause to smell the cherry chapstick. I work like a robot until my face is done and I’m ready to go.
Somewhere between childhood and now, the mirror stopped being a place of magic and wonder and became a place of correction. I wipe the liner until I get it just right. Sometimes I wipe it again until my eyelids turn red and raw.
Image Courtesy: Pinterest
When I was younger, beauty felt like a discovery. I would turn my face from side to side just to see how the gloss caught the light and how the color sat on my lips. Something so small could make me feel suddenly older, fun, and radiant.
Now the process is faster and quieter. There are steps to follow and techniques learned from endless videos. I check lighting and angles. I make sure a camera flash won’t make me look like a ghost. Beauty now lives in the negative space, in the things I’m trying to hide, correct, or improve.
After I finish a full face, I often wonder if I am doing too much. I make small adjustments before leaving the house.
Sometimes I wonder when the shift happened. When the sweet smell of candy apple turned into a checklist. When the face I wake up with became the face I prepare to be seen in.
I wonder if that early version of beauty is still there somewhere, tucked inside the memory of a plastic chapstick tube and the quiet thrill of twisting it open just to smell it again. The soft pop of a compact. The sound of mascara sliding in and out of its tube.
These days the only time makeup feels magical is when I consume it, when I buy whatever is new.
Maybe what I need instead is to embrace the empty compacts again and remember the freedom of it. To remember that this time I am the woman. Grown up and still capable of finding a way to play.
Strike Out,
Selah Hassel
Saint Augustine
Editor: Kaya O’Rourke
Selah Hassel is an English Literature major and Creative Writing minor at Flagler College. She is fascinated by language, perception, and the tension between the analytical and the imaginative. Her writing expression explores identity, cultural memory, and the textures of lived experience. She loves to travel, learn new things, and connect with people along the way. You can find and follow her on Instagram @selah.eve, and occasionally on Substack @selaheve.substack.
