Unmasked: what strangers really look like

● Those who have not ceased their complaining about the mandatory wearing of masks might find it appropriate that these restrictions were lifted just in time for the 67th anniversary of SA’s Freedom Charter, adopted at the Congress of the People in Kliptown on June 26 1955.

Some of the ambitions in the charter have come to pass, such as laws against discrimination and courts representative of all our people.

Others remain elusive, such as access to land, adequate housing and equal education.

The pandemic required prescribed freedoms to be curtailed, such as the right to travel freely and gather in large groups. Splinter resistance groups objected to these measures, and to the wearing of masks, partly because they questioned the wisdom of medical professionals, partly on the basis of the charter clause stating that “no-one shall be … restricted without a fair trial” (imagine how our overloaded courts would cope if everyone whose nose wasn’t covered by a mask went to trial), but mostly because it was an irritation; they couldn’t be bothered.

Now we may all lift our masks and breathe freely, should we choose to. There have been mixed reactions to this new freedom. Masks, as much as they were hated by some, also had benefits.

One didn’t have to worry about freshening one’s breath or putting on lipstick before going out in public. And masks gave us a new common topic to talk about.

The word “mask” comes from an ancient Provençal dialect in which masco meant “witch”. Mascara comes from the same root. It’s not that difficult to connect the dots between witches, masks and makeup, but along the way there was also the old French masque, a covering intended to hide or protect the face.

I explored the etymology of masks in my online “Word in the Hand” column (promotion: visit Sunday Times Daily on Fridays) about two years before Covid hit.

The idea that we would soon all be wearing masks or masques would have seemed ludicrous at the time, but perhaps there was already something in the air that prompted this thought.

Incidentally, in English a “masque” became a play performed by amateur actors who wore masks, either because they were so bad that they did not want people to recognise them, or perhaps because there was no budget for a makeup artist.

There were many ways in which we adapted to compulsory masks. Some created fancy, glittery sequinned versions in an attempt to add cheer to the need to protect ourselves from a killer virus. Others used humour to ameliorate the claustrophobic tedium of face-covering. These heroes are to be commended, not only because it is hard to find anything funny during a global pandemic, but also because you can’t tell whether mask-wearing people are smiling at your jokes or not.

As far as mask memes go (and there were myriad), online wags excelled.

HuffPost published a list of the best social media posts involving masks, which included: “At least men in the street have stopped telling me to ‘smile, darling’”; “Ripping off your mask when you get back in the car is the new taking off your bra when you get home”; and “Shoutout to everybody who already burped into their own face via mask.”

During the early stages of worldwide lockdown, a writer at Melbourne’s Time Out magazine compiled a list of mask benefits — or side-effects, perhaps, given that the obvious big benefit was a smaller chance of contracting Covid.

Some of the best were: “You don’t smell people’s farts as much”; “You can eat with your mouth open and no-one will know”; and “If you wear sunscreen or makeup, you only have to do half your face.”

Which reminds me of my favourite reallife mask-law anecdote. In Maputo, one store had a prominent sign declaring: “No mascara, no entry.”

Sadly, it turned out that this was not a place insisting that its clients be fashionably groomed and made-up. In Portuguese, máscara means mask. And now we can choose not to wear one.