There’s an episode of “How I Met Your Mother” in which the gang talks about gaps in their knowledge – things everyone should know, but never learned. Ted thought chameleon was pronounced sham-uh-lee-on; Robin was convinced the North Pole only existed in stories about Santa. As I watched, all I could think of was the black hole in my own knowledge: My utter incompetence with hair and makeup.

Beauty seems like an ingrained instinct for most of the female population, as if all girls emerge from the womb wielding eyelash curlers and hairspray. All the other girls know how to line their lower lashes. All the other girls know what styling pomade could possibly do. And then there’s me, the girl who walks into Sephora and has a panic attack.

I’ve been this way my entire life. As a five-year-old, I passionately fought my mom when she tried to brush my hair. As my middle school classmates were blowing their allowances on drugstore eye shadow, I was still mastering the fine art of Chapstick. Maybe I just don’t have the glamazon gene. Either way, I think I’m kind of a beauty lost cause.

Even now, at the shamefully old age of 19, I’ve mastered exactly one look: Natural makeup (read: the only kind of makeup I know how to do) and blown-dry hair worn loose or in a ponytail. When I’m in a situation that requires—the horror—special occasion makeup, I’m lost. As my friends coif and blend and bronze in front of the mirror for hours, I kind of play around with my mascara wand and try to make myself look busy. I pretend to analyze things, but mostly I just pray for everyone to hurry up and get out the door already.

And the thing is, even though I know hair and makeup are totally inconsequential, I’m insecure about my glaring lack of cosmetic skill. I hate to say it, but there are moments when I feel like less of a girl for not knowing things my peers have known since grade school. It’s horribly embarrassing when friends stare at me agape because I can’t braid my own hair, or when I finally muster up the courage to try a new eye shadow and end up looking like either a prostitute or a raccoon. Why, I always wonder, can an otherwise fairly capable person not do something so basic that even VH1 reality bimbos have it mastered?

But just when I start to get ready to burn my makeup bag in a fiery blaze, I give myself a reality check. The truth is, it just doesn’t matter.  I pride myself on being able to get ready in five minutes. I like not feeling tethered to my straightening iron and hairdryer. As stunted as my knowledge may be, I’m happy.

And who knows—maybe someday I’ll have some kind of enlightening. Maybe in the future I’ll be able to paint my nails without painting just as much skin. Maybe in a few years I’ll be able to fathom an instance when I’d need lip liner. But for now, I’ll just call it a victory when I apply mascara without stabbing myself in the eye. It’s the little things, you know?

– Jamie Ducharme can be reached at [email protected]