Made up on Makeup

Ah, makeup. That old trick, as some may refer to it. (Question: why in the world would you think that shimmering bronze eyelids and lips as red as the Union Jack are natural? Exactly. So, no one is lying to you. Ok, mini rant over!) We are swamped with media of beautifully made-up faces, with sharp eyeliner that could cut you if your finger ran over it. (You will probably also get cut by the person who is wearing said eyeliner too, because it took them well over twenty minutes and three attempts to perfect.) We are literally drowning in Best Beauty Buys and High Street vs. High End that it is a miracle that we can even decide what to slosh – delicately – onto our faces.

And, this is my first problem: what in the heck should I buy?

Backpedalling a little, here is my (very brief) history of make up: like most young girls, I was gifted makeup sets that were as garish as they were useful. Although an all over grey-shimmering eyelid and glassy cerise-pink lipgloss may indeed be achieved stunningly by women and men today, for my six year old self, let me just say it is not a look I want to repeat. For a short period of time, Christmases and Birthdays involved a few new items to privately paint upon my face (I do not remember, and sincerely hope that I did not, go out in public like this…) because that was the age that we were. But, then I grew up and mostly lost interest, and, unlike today, did not have makeup tutorials to guide me through. Fast-track to Year 11, when I occasionally wore a very cheap mascara that I bought for a ballet show (and, by very cheap, I mean Miss Sporty £2 cheap) and dabbled with some concealer for my spot-splattered skin. (Alas, my skin is still bad but for some reason constantly complaining about it seems easier to me than covering it up.) I also purchased an eyelash curler – outward appearances would conclude that it is indeed a medieval torture trap – and my first proper lipstick. However, this was all in aid of our summer prom, so I felt compelled to at least splash a little something on my face. Then, Year 12, and I simply could not be bothered, to put it in its simplest terms. The only changes I made to my face was the daily wash-scrub-moisturise-spot stick routine (please, let it be simpler, please) and a clamp of the eyelash curlers. However, once I reached Year 13 last September, it occurred to me that mascara would probably prevent my face from shouting to the world that I was a student and constantly tired – even with eight plus hours of sleep – so I invested in a Benefit Roller Lash mascara and have never looked back, with my longer, blacker, better lashes. And, it does make a lot of difference. (The only criticism is that every couple of hours, I have to discreetly run my fingers under my bottom eyelashes, fearful of fallout and it sitting ever so nicely in that little crevice running under my eye, to give the appearance of a bad breakup or a late night. If anyone has any suggestions on how to avoid this racoon-like look, I would appreciate the help.) And, more recently still, I have stuck my naïve – and quite small – hand into the universe that is lipsticks, and, my, it is great. (Except, I am of the lazy type that hates to line my lips and top them up and do all of that so the lipstick still only makes an occasional occurrence.) I have also been surprised – and a little startled at first, but then uncontrollably ecstatic – at the amount of compliments I have received when my lips adorn a new shade – of the two I own, mind.

Now, with my toes edging off the precipice into the unknown that is eighteen, I am trying to learn more. (And, consequently, I also have to buy more.) My Internet history is stacked with research into the best products – and value for money, because in no way am I spending £30 on a product that Rimmel has duped perfectly – and the colours I will suit and how in the world I, a simple Helena, will achieve a blended perfection of my eyeshadow.

So, with my purse’s clasp open, I am attempting to learn – at the grand old age of seventeen-turning-eighteen – how to apply makeup well. And, I think on a public space like this, it probably will hark for an update on progress and products.

Wish me luck in my makeup journey, crammed with metallics and glosses (also, I really cannot comprehend with this trend of lipgloss on your eyelids. Please, stop.) and wands to whisk it all into my skin. I think I may need it.

Tumbili - fiction

I was born with the ground scarcely touching my hands and feet, suckling safely between my mother’s body and the trees. Psychedelic yellows and bursts of oranges that would waterfall down to the forest floor in long, untangled vines. I would watch my family with intense focus as their tails whimsically whirled around slender branches, dancing like their bodies were following their spirits through the trees in effortless travel. Their eyes like two full moons focusing in on your own invisible pupils, handing you a share of peachy fruit, dripping juice down their curled, black fingers: the smell so sweet it tingled in the back of your throat and excited your saliva glands.

Now the world is precise whites and metal bars and hunched backbones and only space for oneself and self-pity. Where we welcome silence until the universal panic of whether it meant another has been lost, or is in acute pain, or has given up, or – more likely – awaiting death. I was literally ripped from the treetops I had only known for a heartbeat, to be slung into boxes that would sooner stop my heart than start it again. A laboratory guinea pig, where I am more similar to the people that imprison me that phrase implies. They seem unregistered to my forlorn melancholy smacked across my long face, the skin receding from my fingernails and peeling off in clumps from my back, revealing flesh that peppers the stale air with decay.

I have been wrenched shrieking from my metal jail, clamped onto cold table-tops, rammed and pierced with needles and drugs and unlawful pain. Dazed, I then pass under strip lights and consciousness, naked except for the tape that seals my eyes: finding myself straggled over metal bars and antiseptic again. I deteste the smell of disinfectant, spewing into my cavities and infecting my lungs: synthetic fruits, designed to cover over the stench of horror.

***

On my first first week, pressed against the back wall by the fear and fumes, I saw a mirror of myself, hunched behind thick, reflective bars. A monkey like me, with a deep scar snaking from his left ear to his chin, an extended index finger that looked like it belonged to his feet than on his hands, and deep-set acid-green eyes: his name was Tumbili. When the guards in pressed white coats and fresh white gloves disembarked from our confinement, Tumbili and I would chatter frequently about our times past, in the forest with our families of cousins and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters and mother.

                  “Did you know, Uhuru, that one evening it rained mango fruits and my mother gave me my first bite and I tell you, Uhuru, I have never eaten something so sweet and palatable ever since I have touched this earth.”

Squashing into branches and plopping onto the forest floor, I could almost touch the mangos’ soft skin without even stretching my arms.

Tumbili was an older monkey than I, recounting stories that far predated my actual existence, and he knew very much. He was even going to attempt escape – with me – one day. But, the scent of disinfectant lingered over his body for too long one early sunrise, indicated by the strip lights buzzing: the mosquitoes had been more inviting. Too many penetrations entered his body and too many days had been tainted by the drone of the strip lights. A solemn, helpless appearance took over his face and body as he was heaved into a yellow disposable bag and slung into a dump. And since then I have perched, bandaged and sore, in my cage like an animal.

Uhuru = monkey, Tumbili = freedom in Swahili

A piece about testing on animals

Oh, But My Celebrity Self Would Have It Together

When I awake, my eyelids will pop open; the sunlight will drift hazily through the linin curtains, allowing small particles to stream in diagonal lines like strobe lighting. I will not smack the snooze button, but fling myself out of bed, only to be met with a reflection in a full-length mirror, adorned with light-bulbs, as if backstage. Usually, this would make me cringe, squirm, stare at a bulbous body with thighs the expanse of America. (Probably exacerbated by the tattered pyjamas clinging to my body: the cuffs of the sleeves uneven; the shorts riding up to peek my bottom.) But, fear not! For now I am a celebrity, I will strut towards that mirror: slender legs that stretch the length of Italy, toned arms and a stomach as flat as a newly plastered wall. I may even blow myself a kiss.

Because I may have had a cheeky, decadent treat the night before – one heart-shaped cacao chocolate hand-made in Sicily – I will decide today that I will go on a spontaneous run around my private block: not because I am vain or guilty, but because it will gift the day with a bit of zen. (Unlike my non-celebrity self, who sat on the sagging sofa last night, scooping up a slice of cake I defrosted from the freezer, doused in cream, and then proceeded to hoover up the majority of a Dairy Milk tray.) But, before that, I swan into my kitchen and pull out a bowl of 100% Pure Vanilla Greek Yoghurt with chia seeds, blueberries and a sprinkling of granola.

Fulfilling my celebrity status, I may pop to the salon, where I do not even have to book a slot, for just a few hair highlights – or, even more scandalous, get it cut – or go to a café and become paparazzi prey. I could always go shopping: not your typical shopping centre with Primark (‘Primarni’ to convince yourself your purchases are justifiable), Topshop and JD Sport. I am talking a little Burberry splurge, a few Chanel must-haves, or explore Victoria Secret – no need to rely on the sales either! Unlike the usual triumph of a casual t-shirt and hairbands, I will emerge – still hair swishing, as if no knot would ever dare to touch such a sacred head – with no less than a new wardrobe draped around my wrists, with a minimum of a few thousand pounds on high heels.

My gorgeous actor-model husband may whisk me off to dinner that night; as I make my exit from the taxi for dinner, I will cover my delicate eyes from the dazzling flash of the cameras from those poor – but infuriating – onlookers, who just need to churn a little extra cash to tide them over. We will sip rosé (and my lipstick will not transfer onto the flutes, not even budge, because I will spend much more than high street prices on perfecting the pout) while cutting into steak tartar and a mixed leaf salad. Unless I become a gluten-free, dairy-free, grass-fed, low-carb idol, but then I am sure the restaurant will know exactly what I will be ordering every time.

And then, when back in our modest mansion, I will slip into a chic silk nightgown – sourced from the Himalayan Mountains, as an impromptu gift from my delicious husband – and laugh and fall sound asleep, ready for my next busy day of photo-shoots and perfume testing for my own range. Perfect.

***

Except, I doubt our vision of celebrity is entirely true. Many will have what could be judged as an ‘easier’ life sure: less financial troubles; more opportunities for those we would label as ‘once in a lifetime’. Their bodies may be more sculpted because they actually have time to indulge in private yoga classes with their celebrity best friends, as well as free, promotional spray-tans every month. They may even be famous for just being famous, not even working their way up. However, thrusting yourself – or being shoved into – the conscious mind of the public may not always be the fluffy clouds and delicate dreams we may believe: the constant criticism, probably labelled as ‘critiquing’, may harm your mentally permanently, penetrating every thought, so when you do hoist yourself in front of a mirror, your mind merely slips towards your ‘bad bits’. Everytime you scuttle under the sky, your movements are stalked. Your life, your partner, your children, can be snatched up just in time for the media to print the full story. Just look at Johnny Depp, now a little twisted with age and stardom, or even Shia LeBoeuf, reportedly gone drunk-mad with the stuff.

But, I still believe that my celebrity self would have it together just a little bit more than my current version: I mean, I would not say no to more money in my bank account.