My Everyday Makeup Routine
“All right!” I tell myself as I sit down in front of the mirror, adjust it a little, and gather the products I need.
I examine my reflection. It’s been the same for almost thirty years now. Nothing new. Yet there’s always something unfamiliar. A new strand of grey hair. A new freckle. Today it's a rogue hormonal pimple. I pick up my eyebrow pencil. It's only been two weeks since I’ve done my brows, and there are so many stray hairs already. Lucky for me, my brows grow in shape and it’s the one thing about myself I don’t have to modify to make more presentable or feel the need to do so.
I reach for my concealer, always amused and grateful that of all the things possible, it was the colour description of a humble concealer that finally taught me to love my brown-toned skin for what it is. Years of wishing and wishing I was fair went out the window when I saw “caramel with golden undertones.” Because it finally hit me. Yes, my skin may be dark, but it’s forged with gold. Something my aunts, uncles, grandmothers, and grandfathers used to cajole. “My gold,” they would say in Tamil. “Come eat,” the default way to console a tantrum in South Asian cultures. So, yes, my skin may be dark. But if that’s all someone chooses to see, it’s their loss of this caramel sweetness and the gold within my family and friends so clearly see.
I set my concealer with powder and diffuse some more over the rest of my face. A peachy coloured powder on a brown skin tone. Sometimes things don’t have to be uniform to pair, sometimes things don’t have to be standardised to harmonise. I’m comfortable being different now.
I smile to find the apples of my cheeks, unable to hold the consequent grin that escapes me as I laugh back at myself. Content. I think. I feel content with life. It took nearly thirty years but look at who I am now and where I am. Curiosity. I can’t fight back the brief curiosity. If I can grow exponentially between twenty and thirty, I wonder how I would feel about myself at forty. I wonder how much I would grow before forty. Calm. I remind myself as my thoughts start racing ahead of me. Calm down. Focus on the present. I tell myself as I gently pat the blush with my fingertips and blend them.
I wipe my fingers and reach for the contour stick. I draw two lines just under my cheekbone, enhancing the natural shadow that’s already there. I pause at my nose, like I do every day, as I debate whether I should contour my nose. No, I decide, as I put down my contour stick firmly. I wish my nose would be sharper to suit the South Asian definition of beauty, but it’s one I have learned to live with. Sometimes things don’t have to be perfect for the bigger picture to work.
I do my highlight and I turn my head this way and that, partly to make sure I’ve blended it well. Mostly because I’m always fascinated by the way the parts of my skin that have the highlight shine. “Caramel with golden undertones.” My own form of the night sky scattered with luminescent stars. Aren’t we all made of stars and supernovas, anyway? So, I suppose… I am the sky and the stars. The storm cloud, the sun. The deepest oceans and the tallest mountains. I’m made up of so many beautiful things, and yet, as much as I love myself, I still hesitate to say “I am beautiful” out loud.
Time for eyes, the quintessential mark of South Asian beauty! I pick up my “kajal pencil”, one sold by a European brand. I wonder if it was lovingly made from coconut shells and castor oil the way my grandmother does. I’ve been doing my eyeliner since I was 14, effectively meaning I’ve now spent most of my life with eyeliner than without. Yet symmetrical wings continue to elude me. I add lashings of mascara, knowing well that if I had to choose between eyeliner and mascara, I would pick the latter in a heartbeat. It feels like I’m betraying my Tamil roots by picking the mascara over the eyeliner, but it is who I am now. It doesn't make me any less Tamil, the way speaking Tamil doesn't make me more Tamil. Identity is complicated.
Lipsticks didn’t join my makeup bag until I was twenty. The first one was a sticky, shimmery, caramel coloured lip gloss. Not caramel with golden undertones though, more caramel with silvery sparkles. It doesn’t mean one is better than the other in any way. They are both beautiful in their own right. I look down at the six tubes of lipstick I have – no more glosses for me, thank you! I scan them – an orange-red, a berry, a soft pink, a fire red, a nude brown and a vintage red. Just six now, to replace the twenty-two I had until 2017. It’s like friends. I didn’t have orange-red lipstick until 2018 but can’t imagine my life without it now. I was obsessed with magenta until I woke up one day in 2017 to realise how awful it was and tossed it out. Berry continues to be a mainstay while the bubble-gum pink has softened down to a natural pink now. I don’t regret the twenty-two I had in 2017 and I don't feel any lack over the six I have now. And while I miss some of the colours I’ve decided are no good for me since, I don’t see myself reaching for them anymore. I’m happy with the six I have now. And I know I’ll be happy if it stays that way or changes. Because I’ve learned to treat myself the way I treat my friends. I reach for the vintage red and apply it with care and a bit of love. There's always a bit of love in everything. I make my lips pop because doing so makes me feel like a glamorous Hollywood heroine, only to giggle at my reflection and reality. “Caramel with golden undertones.”
I give myself one final look, proud of what I have done, and happy with how I look. Korean brows, South Asian eyeliner, French-style blush, and a lipstick shade that’s a symbol of defiance from the forties. It works. Somehow, they define who I am and sometimes they help me define myself when I can’t. Just like they have the women before me and the women who will come after me.
*Subscribe to my monthly newsletter, "Thendral's Telegraph" here!*
