In the polarised world we live in, every action we take or decision we make is construed as a representation of the kind of person we are. Nowhere more so than on the question of masks. Social media have already split those who wear and those who refuse to comply, into tribes: if you don’t wear a mask you’re a Trump supporter or a Brexiteer or a “Covidiot” - someone who puts their personal liberty above the greater good. If you don one for every trip outside you’re following a herd mentality and are not questioning the rules - and in particular the personal inconvenience to you as an individual. Which camp are you in?
Or maybe, like me, your feelings are mixed. In the real world things are more nuanced and for women in particular, covering our faces can carry particular significance. I know I am not alone in finding this aspect of our new normal both unsettling and unpleasant, but at the same time I recognise that it’s important. It’s not just the practicalities that are challenging such as negotiating glasses and mask without steaming up in seconds; or that it’s really hard to hear and be heard as you go about your daily activities. I was recently stopped in the aisle of a supermarket by an elderly woman who couldn’t find what she needed - nor could she hear my directions as I tried to help her. We smiled with our eyes and both muttered something unintelligible to the other. When I remember her, I think of the many isolated people for whom those random conversations in shops and the smiles of strangers are their only human contact. Life feels diminished by our inability to communicate in these mundane ways. Not only can we not hug and kiss family and friends, we also lose out on the more fleeting daily connections with other people outside our “bubble.”
For me - and I suspect others if they dare to admit it - the reluctance goes deeper. People walking past me hidden behind their masks remind me of hospitals and sickness, constantly recalling the pandemic we are enduring and bringing back bad memories of decline and loss. We seem even further away from each other than we were before the virus hit, hiding from each other in fear of contagion, at a time when more separation is not what we need.
Of course I’m not advocating ignoring good scientific advice for the sake of individualistic sensitivities, but as with everything in life which provokes mixed feelings, it can be instructive to examine our discomfort rather than glossing over and denying it, diverting our judgment to others who express those doubts.
When I consider my own problematic reaction to masks, I’m aware of the special place they occupy for women. In the Western world, uncovering women has been a sign of emancipation: from the rising hems of the suffragettes through the bra burning 70s to the sheerness of 21st century women’s clothing. It’s only really been going one way. Women being forced to cover up is seen as oppression of their bodies, their voices, their fundamental rights. Not so long ago French police on Nice beaches were forcing women in Burkinis to remove their long sleeved tops in a form of patriarchal, enforced emancipation gone horribly wrong. Now the same police are patrolling markets and city streets requiring people to cover up. On beaches and in markets, whether being required remove or put on clothes and no matter what the reason, being told what to wear is dehumanising and a loss of our freedom to live as we choose. Sometimes such is the zealousness of the mask-enforcers - in the UK, the government is running ads asking people not to be abusive to those not wearing masks - they seem far removed from the informed voice of the science behind it, becoming another battleground of our seemingly endless anger and division.
In some ways though women have always been wearing masks. Artifice is an accepted part of a woman’s arsenal. I rarely leave home without a streak of lipstick and a touch of mascara, and most of us apply our work face before Zoom calls. Women in particular fastidiously cover up signs of their age, dissembling through touched up faces and hair colour. Confinement made all of that more challenging, and masks have added a new dimension. Cosmetic companies report that, in recent months, most make up expenditure has been for the eyes, as we adjust to focus on what remains visible. So, if I am so happy (indeed dependent on) one type of mask why am I so reluctant to embrace another? Masks might be teaching me something new and encouraging about myself. Hyper critical though I am (along with most other women) of my own appearance, I actually prefer my and other people’s faces to be uncovered. I’m starting to be kinder to myself, more forgiving of my imperfections.
Women in the menopause can be acutely aware of masks, although of course this time of life is experienced in many different ways. Some describe it as a time when the mask of artifice falls, when they can finally be themselves. For others, it’s different. In a recent podcast Michelle Obama described how women are encouraged to hide the very evident physical symptoms of the menopause both at work and home - there is denial and a need for invisibility. It’s all too unseemly to be seen. I probably experience a bit of both, but battle most with increasing feelings of invisibility; wearing a mask strengthens that feeling. Realising that truth about myself allows me to sympathise more with my reluctance to wear a mask and with others who struggle: who knows what the deeper significance of masks might be for them. It also helps me find other outlets for my need to be visible.
If there is an upside in all of this, perhaps our resistance to masks can make us more accepting of our naked selves. We might be tempted to find new ways to connect with others, to reveal ourselves a little more, psychologically as well as physically: small steps towards rebuilding community and intimacy in this strange new world.