| |
This isn’t happening. It’s not going well. Not one bit. You’d think that money can buy anything these days. With so many options at our disposal - the web, social media, the old faithful family and friend recommendations. This search seems even harder than finding a husband - finding a half-decent, punctual and professional makeup artist.
Despite days of accumulated research, I have yet to find one of the most crucial components of the wedding planning puzzle.
I had a trial on Saturday, with the lady who does my eyebrows in the salon near work. I quite liked her on the threading front. On my first visit she offered me a glass of water, which is a rarity amongst Asian beauticians where it’s a bit of a quick and dirty process. Her parlour seems busy with a mix of Asian and non-Asian clients. She offers a wealth of services from makeup, hair, nails and I think she even does bridal henna. Basically, it was all looking good and in my semi-desperate state I was already thinking she might be the one.
She wasn’t. A tight-arse bullshit merchant is what she was.
I barely sat in the makeup chair, before she started harping on about facials. Yeah, that old chestnut. Given that my face was still suffering the after effects of the rather brutal facial administered by the burly beautician a mere two weeks back, I wasn’t planning on doing one again.
After several failed attempts at pushing me to book a facial with her, she took the hint and got to work.
Now, I’ve had enough makeup trials in my time to know that a basic best practice is they apply fake lashes. No makeup look is complete without a set of falsies as it’s the difference between a so-so look, and a transformation. I never use the lashes again, so would happily peel them off and give them back post-trial, but I need them applied initially.
However, lady BS was shocked at the suggestion, so she dug out a pair of purple novelty lashes (I‘m assuming she didn’t want to part with a more in-demand black pair) and made a sneaky comment about how I’m ready for my wedding now! Cheeky cow.
The rest of the trial followed suit. Her and her assistant exchanged catty remarks in Urdu or Punjabi or whatever the language was. I couldn’t understand what they were saying but the eye rolls and side eye game was strong.
Annoyingly, I really liked her makeup. Not too heavy but with enough vibrancy in my cheeks to look a bit more special than daywear.
However, once I told her I liked the makeup, she went back on her original quote and bumped up her price by 50%. All this within the space of a few days between my initial enquiry call and the trial itself. You can’t blame that on inflation. I still don’t know whether she was lying or ‘chose to forget’ but I’m certainly not booking with her. Now officially not her friend, I’m going to have to find someone else to do my eyebrows. It’s a good thing I’m moving to a new city, as I’ve depleted the talent pool of Asian beauticians in Manchester.
I could continue searching but it feels futile. Between this beautician and the previous one that had a limited range and the girl I used for my engagement that sprayed my hair rock hard, I’ve also had about a dozen email and social media exchanges which have been so disappointingly pointless it wasn’t even worth noting.
Maybe, just possibly, I’ll have to... do my own wedding makeup.
I can’t believe it’s come to this.
***
I NEED TO UP MY GAME. If... and it’s a big if... I’m going to do my own makeup, I need to get the hours of practice in now.
Baby steps though. I decide to start by having a go at creating a mehendi makeup look, as the stakes aren’t quite so high on this occasion. I mean, Sophia barely wore any makeup on her mehendi, telling me that in her culture they opt for minimal makeup for this event to be fresh-faced ahead of the wedding. She shared this titbit after spotting my very unsubtle poker face gaping at her barefaced photos.
I log onto the fountain of all beauty knowledge – YouTube – to see if I can copy their techniques. I find a video tutorial of green eye makeup, which would be great for a mehendi look.
One good thing about the trial and (mainly) error of my beautician hunt is that I’ve picked up a few handy hints along the way. The first of which is that you always need a primer of some sort to prep your face for makeup. That must be where I’ve been going wrong with my makeup meltdowns of yesteryear. As I glide on the primer I bought from a previous makeup trial in a department store (and never used since), I see it really does create a smooth base. What are these thoughts popping into my head? Gliding? Smooth base? I think I’ve been watching too many tutorials.
Now for the main feature of any Asian bridal look. The second thing I’ve learnt is to start a makeover with the eyes first. This is because any eyeshadow pigments that fall on your face can be easily wiped away without ruining the rest of your makeup. Again - what? Just who do I think I am?
This is where I get brave. Mehendi rules dictate green or even, dare I say, a yellow eye look. I’m doing both. I start with a yellow shadow on the inside of my eyelid, just as the photogenic makeup artist demonstrates in her video. Some of these colours are a bit tricky to get hold of as they are hues I would never, I repeat, never wear. However, the tacky metal case of makeup gifted to me on my engagement by M’s family has its starring moment as it contains all of these garish colours.
Within the kaleidoscope of eyeshadow quads, I find the necessary green shade, hilariously called Love and Money. Was someone employed to think up these names? Anyway, that goes onto the centre of my eyelid. I need to be quick as I have approximately 30 minutes before my teenage sister comes upstairs to do whatever it is she has to do on her phone at 8pm precisely every night. I could do without the audience. I also don’t have the tiny fluffy makeup brush that’s used in the video with a handy affiliate link for the makeup artist to make a quick buck from my purchase. I just use my finger instead, employing a dabbing motion. At the risk of sounding cocky or jumping the gun, I think I’m pretty good at this.
To add further intensity (again, who is this makeup aficionado who’s taken over my being?), I apply a fern shade (also from the handy metal case I’d been judging ever so harshly).
Dutifully following the tutorial, I blend the three shades together to, as the makeup artist says, ‘reduce any harsh lines’.
To finish the eye painting, I’m advised to sweep an orange-yellow tone just under the brow bone. After a rustle through my makeup bag I resort to using a gold glittery shade from a palette I purchased during my early twenties when I went through a phase of buying lots of makeup and never using it. Second problem, I don’t have the pointy nibbed makeup brush used by the online beauty guru. Her affiliate link tells me it will cost £26. For that one brush. That I will use once. Well, I am nothing if not versatile, so I dip a long neglected lip brush into the gold sparkly shade. A quick swish under my eyes results in more on my cheekbones than where it should be. I think now is the time to examine the fruits of my labour.
I take a few selfies on my phone, both up close and at a distance, looking straight at the camera and with a lowered gaze. I try with the flash and without. I look in the mirror, both using the regular view and flipping over the round mirror to reveal the magnified side. After observing from all angles, I can conclude that the result is... fucking terrible.
I mean, what was I thinking? I know I’m desperate, I know time is marching on but there is no way I can do that gorgeous beautiful bedazzling lehenga justice by doing my own makeup. Forget finishing my face, I’m stopping right here. Ain’t got time for this rubbish.
Like clockwork, little sis bundles into the room cradling her phone like it’s a newborn baby.
She struggles to stifle a laugh. “What are you doing? That looks so weird!”
I sigh with resignation. I just have to stick to my strengths. I grab my phone to text Bushra: Hey, would you be able to give me the details of your cousin the makeup artist?