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Makeup. What is makeup? Makeup for me means to live another day, another minute, another second. A boring vanilla soul. A blank canvas, or simpler terms, being fixed by color, light, and life.
I like to start off my makeup routine with moisturizer. My skin, deprived of moisture as my heart is with love. Dry like the Sahara Desert on my lower cheeks, yet oily on the top of my nose, chin, and forehead. As I wash my face and apply a thin layer of moisturizer, I think, how simple it must feel to need something called love. Yet, it can be washed away at any time, at any moment. Even so, we cling to it so tightly.
I would like to go into the sunshine, and not have people stare at my open pores, acne, and my phony confidence. Pollution runs deep into my face. Every small open hole clogged by the everyday dirt and dust that is birthed by life.
Primer is my friend who smooths out the truth about my real self. Your breath doesn't smell that bad. Or, yeah, floral dresses don't make you look like a grandmother. That one friend we all need to sugarcoat for us, so we can feel reassured in a world where lies are our comfort.
Concealer. Conceal, hide, to stash away. Hide my real self. The world is not an accepting place where I can openly show my true self. Occasionally, there will be those who embrace me with open arms. But one who dances naked in front of the eyes of the world is a fool who seeks the warmth of all shapes and sizes of good and bad. Conceal myself, because when engulfed in darkness the moonlight is as clear as day. But when under the moonlight, only darkness and isolation is what I see.
Protection. Protect myself at all times. The sun, as harsh as the words my mother once spat at me. The wind, as crass as my father's unthoughtful actions. The rain, as deafening as my dear friend's encouragement. I apply it everywhere; from the top of my head to the bottom of my toes, a gentle reminder that without foundation my makeup would only slowly destroy. Maybe not in a year, or ten years, but it will come. The deterioration of my skin will slowly start to show. The damages I can no longer hide from underneath my youth. Foundation, best mixed with sunscreen. Protect yourself at all times.
Life. Life itself is a mere concept. The vessel in which live thrives in lives within me. Without life I am but an empty carcass waiting to decay. Waiting to feed another vessel in which life sits in. The bronzer that gives my vessel the essence of warmth and color dyes my cheeks with existence; while the highlighter touches upon my chin and outer eye bones to symbolize my consciousness in this world.
The last few finishing touches to perfect the imperfection: mascara and eye liner. As if I'm following the world's routing of what beauty is, what life should look like. Carefully, I try to make it look as consistent as possible. I naively apply it to myself. Learn to know my guardians. Learn to respect my teachers. Learn to make connections with my friends. Learn to make compromises with a stranger. Learn to build a family. And, learn to teach my offsprings to repeat the cycle.
As I paint each lash, the limbo of trying to perfect the imperfect life surrounds my eyes. Surrounds me. Every interval in between, I weep. I either realize I don't want to, or because I will fail. The tears that carry my confusion and sadness draw streaks down my cheeks. Dirty, ugly reminder that this is the truth of the perfect and the imperfect.
Red. Like the blood that runs through my veins. The substance that radiates heat when I'm angry. And the substance that grows cold as I age stays with like the love of my life. Red stains my lips with a deep finish. A cherry on top. The end of a musical. The last few drops of water from a bottle. Red is what is used to represent me after I sleep and dream of the afterlife. The finishing, yet, the beginning of a new day.
Makeup. What is makeup? Makeup for me means to live another day, another minute, another second.
