There’s nothing like a makeover to cheer a girl up. I pull the mirror off the wall in the hallway and sit on my bedroom floor where the light is best. Mum came home two days ago, but she’s too ill to really do anything. She can make it to the sofa, but that’s about it.
I have nowhere to go (it is Llanmarion) but I find putting on make-up oddly therapeutic. I start with base, as you do. I have two foundations, one for summer, when I have more of a tan, and a cooler one for winter. I’m careful not to cake it on too thick or you get that terrible tidemark around the jawline.
I tidy up my eyebrows with tweezers before using a little primer over my lids. I try to perfect my smoky eye, mixing white, grey and black – blending them over my lid, black extending towards the outer tip of my brow. A little kohl under the eye and liquid liner along the edge of the upper lid.
I glue some false lashes on. I regret it at once – they’re too long and look stupidly fake. Maybe if I curl them they’ll look better. I do so and add mascara. It’s clumpy and a bit ‘tarantula lashes’. Christ. I sigh and start on my cheeks.
You have to be so careful with blusher, or you look like a cheap doll hooker. I prefer a very subtle peachy-bronze shade over the cheekbones and then some pale highlighter above the line. Maybe it’s the light, but it looks OTT. I vigorously pummel my cheeks with a thick, clean brush to blend, but it doesn’t seem to help much.
I’ve come too far to turn back. Again, to avoid looking like a prozzie, you can choose eyes or lips, and with such a heavy eye I need a light lip so pick a pearly ‘nude’ shade. It’s a too pale and it looks a bit gothy. I wipe it off and instead choose a dusky pink.
I apply too much, missing my lipline. I swear loudly and rummage in my make-up bag for a lipliner to straighten it up. I take a good look at myself. Am I drunk? I’m so far outside my lips I look like a Page 3 girl.
I look like total shit.
I’m too hot.
I’m sweating.
My left eye is clearly bigger than the right.
I look like the Hamburglar.
Or a raccoon.
Or RuPaul.
I’m boiling.
I want this shit off my face.
I itch all over.
I drag my left hand over my left eye, leaving a horrid coaly smudge over my cheek.
I unwind the pink lipstick all the way and press it hard against my reflection. I write until the whole lipstick is broken off and hurl it across the boxroom.
The big pink letters say CLOWN.