Elvis Presley became an Elvis impersonator before he died. Somewhere along the way, the origin blurred with the echo. He began to play the predictable, iconic version of himself that the world expected to see. It’s a strange thing, to become a symbol of yourself. To perform the familiar gestures, wear the costume, strike the pose, until even your own reflection looks like a souvenir.
In beauty, this can happen insidiously. A person finds a look that gets compliments. And so, they repeat it day after day, year after year. What was once an expression becomes a uniform. Familiarity starts to feel like safety, but also like a trap because it no longer evolves.
Sometimes the impersonation starts with admiration. We try on someone else’s glamour, hoping it will translate into confidence. And at first, it does. But if we’re not careful, we forget to take the costume off. We start mistaking applause for alignment. People respond well, so we stick with it. But something subtle shifts. A version of the self begins to replace the self.
Impersonation can be theatrical, but it’s often subtle, even loving. A way of staying close to who we once were, or who we wish we could be. But if the mirror starts to feel like a stage, and every morning feels like preparing for a role, it’s worth asking: is this still me?
Makeup, at its best, can pull us out of the performance by inviting change, making small edits, and generating an invitation for play. The face is not a static logo.
To stop impersonating is to allow for growth. Sometimes, when you outgrow the role, the audience doesn’t applaud. They fidget, squint, asked what happened, and confess they miss the version of you they’d memorized.
This is when it takes the most courage to change and to withstand being misunderstood. To let people be confused while you step into clarity. Beauty is about honesty in flux.