Each day begins with primer.
Then foundation, two different concealers, bronzer, contour, blush number one — then another concealer. I quickly powder my under eyes so they don’t crease, then spritz some finishing spray — even though it’s far from finished. Next is eyebrow gel, eyelid primer, then a medley of neutral eyeshadows from three palettes.
I carefully curl my eyelashes, then hold my breath and steady my hand for winged eyeliner. The finish line is in sight. Mascara, eyebrow pencil, waterline eyeliner, lipstick, then powder the whole face. Finally a powder blush, then a cream blush to bring back a natural skin-like finish and one more sparkly luminescent blush for good measure.
And, in a quintessential act of irony that doesn’t escape me, my makeup look is never complete until I take a Q-tip and wipe off the product concealing the six distinct beauty marks on my face. One on my right eyelid, one below my left eye, one on each cheek and two by my chin.
If I were invited to tea with the King of England, I would have on this face of makeup; if I needed to run to 7/11 for a Big Gulp, it’d look exactly the same. My makeup is as routine for me as putting on my shoes or grabbing my keys before heading out the door. It’s impractical and excessive, but it’s non-negotiable and most importantly, it’s me.
The first time I wore makeup was in 4th grade — not of my own volition, but because I was performing in a local musical theater production of “A Christmas Carol.” Stage makeup is unmistakably heavy and dramatic but equally necessary to prevent performers from getting washed out by the intensely bright theater lights.
So, to avoid looking like an amorphous blob of skin on stage, clown-like blush, dense eyeshadow and bright lipstick were a must. Although it was only meant to look good from 20 feet away, every time I sat in front of the mirror backstage, I was infatuated with how the makeup made me look and feel.
It felt like a costume, and a warm blanket shielding me from the cold reality of what I actually looked like. As most young girls are, I was deathly insecure and desperate for any physical manifestation that made me feel pretty, even for just a moment. The makeup did just that.
Each time I got home from a performance, I avoided washing my face for as long as possible, dying to soak in every second I had where I looked like a “better” version of myself.
After the show ended, the makeup disappeared. But the confidence it gave me was always in the back of my mind, waiting until the next show or dress rehearsal when I could paint my self-doubt with a heavy hand of creams and powders. Annually or bi-annually, when the next musical came around, I could temporarily reignite that self-assurance and contentment with my physical appearance.
By seventh grade, I decided I was finally old enough to wear makeup regularly. I gathered what minimal products I had — some runoff from musicals and some products I snagged from my mom’s collection — and began exploring an art form on my face.
It began subtly with light layers of mascara and minimal concealer, but each morning I did my makeup I slowly delved into more extensive and dramatic applications. Though my makeup use initially stemmed from a place of self-consciousness, I soon found the process transformative, and not because of the ways it changed or “improved” my physical appearance.
I cherish the opportunity to be solitary and focus on something I enjoy, even for an hour a day. Amidst the chaos of school, work and a social life, sitting at my desk doing my makeup is the one moment of peace where I can slow down and tune out all expectations, distractions and to-dos.
Experimenting with makeup taught me that it wasn’t about covering up my insecurities, it was about practicing self-love. The end result was inconsequential — it didn’t matter if I had perfect skin or symmetrical eyebrows — what was important was that I took the time every day to do a little something for myself.
So, every morning, I’ll sit in front of my mirror, pick up my brushes and methodically blend and create. To many people, I’m synonymous with that caked-on face. Whether it’s for a night out or a regular day of work and classes, I’ll never be seen without my winged eyeliner or mascara-clumped eyelashes. I don’t wear makeup because I don’t love myself as I am; I wear it because I love myself enough to practice the ritual that makes me feel my best.
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