Meditations on Makeup

I hope these memories never fade.

My first memory of makeup is watching my mother apply her dusty blue Clinique shadow to her eyes. I was sitting atop the toilet seat in her bathroom, in awe of this ritual, this methodical routine that I could only assume was reserved for an age and stage that was far out of my reach.

I can still see the exact position that the small, teal, rectangular slide compact would lay. Amidst a cabinet full of cotton buds, wax strips, tweezers, nail polish remover, and more.

I hope this memory never fades.

I remember sneaking into my mother’s room, which was really just walking in, knowing I hadn’t asked permission to spray her perfume or apply her red lipstick. I remember wondering if one day, I might also own my own fragrance. If one day I would smell beautiful. If one day I would have access to what adulthood appeared to be. What beauty sold to me.

I hope this memory never fades.

I would have been four or five or six, when my father would let my sister and I play ‘shop’, he being our only customer, letting us apply Oil of Olay to his face, followed by clip-on earrings and eyeshadows and lip glosses from our Miki CD palette. Our service was impeccable. 5 Stars, $2, a day well paid.

I hope this memory never fades.

But from here, makeup took on some other form. Less innocent, less playful, less expressive.

My curiosity turned to conformity.

I look at the photo of myself, the first time I highlighted my hair. I’m wearing a cross shoulder, one sleeved black and white striped top, Mytikos, and strappy sandals. The look on my face is pure joy:

I’ve made it. I’m in. I’m one step closer to being an adult.

I think about my obsession with bronzing powder. First Hoolah by Benefit, then Nars Laguna, the metaphorical ‘chokehold’ these products had on me, and I wonder if they ultimately led to Fluff. Did they know, back then, that 16 year-old-me would go on to found a beauty company?

I contemplate how a friend once told me I had “bedroom eyes”, remarking on the effect the “smokey eye” I’d wear out would have on those around me. I laughed at the time. I furrow my brow now.

I hear my mother’s voice talk about her thin upper lip every time I line my own.

I hope this memory fades.

I reflect on the initial bookings I made and cancelled, to get lip liner tattooed on my face. I’m grateful for whatever role serendipity and other plans had to play.

I can’t remember how long or how much I invested in getting eyelash extensions. I can remember falling asleep every time, the irony of keeping up with beauty standards - was it exhausting me? Was I actually paying to rest?

I remember thinking that Glossier was everything. Until I realised that I wasn’t anything to Glossier.

I remember walking through the aisles at Cosmoprof. Doing 30,000 steps that day. I remember being in awe, like the child who sat atop my mother’s toilet seat, and at the same time confused, at the quantities - it was all a numbers game.

I think about my adoration for trinkets. Something that has stayed with me over time. How my desire for everything to tell a story dates back to those nights spent reading picture books with my parents in bed.

I think about how our clothes say so much about us, and now our makeup does too.

How some people’s routine is non-existent, how others are five minutes, and finally, the conversation I had with one woman whose morning makeup ritual is a meditation, at least an hour, at minimum.

A Fluff customer once told me that they had never worn makeup, and that our brand made them feel safe. I was both proud and sad. I started this company during the peak of “The Instagram Face”, in the hopes that women would wear less, and yet on this occasion, she was wearing more. And even though she felt confident, I was conflicted.

I remember rambling to my friend and co-worker Ellen, trying to explain the thoughts that kept me up each night about beauty standards, beauty business, beauty expression. I told her that “it’s ok to feel more with makeup, so long as you don’t feel less without it.” She told me that’s when everything about Fluff, everything that we were trying to achieve, made sense.

I hope this memory, and this meditation never fades.

My thoughts are not perfect. I feel the familiar pull: to wear more, to be more, to change more. I sit with the feelings. They always pass.

I dated a man who saw me more times with makeup than without.

Nowadays, my boyfriend rarely sees me with makeup on.

I rarely see myself with makeup on.

And I wonder, should I try more?

I show up to work meetings, owning a makeup brand, without makeup on.

And I wonder, am I off brand?

And I reflect, does it even matter?

None of this does.

I like makeup, but I don’t like feeling made up, that is, make believe.

I like feeling like me.

It’s taken years to get here. To simply be.

Years of madness, to set me free.

This piece was written for Fluff in collaboration with The Ritual by KIC, currently discussing the theme: “Method in the Madness.”

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