I am not sure when I gave up wearing makeup. I was never particularly good at it. As a student, I was thrown into an early 2000s performance of femininity that involved thick eyeliner flicks, dyed hair, doll-like blusher and bright pink lips. I felt the pressure of magazines, adverts and other women’s faces pressing me towards cosmetics like a hockey player being clapped into drinking beer out of their own shoe.
The fact that I never had the patience or the money to pull it off didn’t seem to matter. I wore makeup to work and even more makeup to sweat off on the dancefloor when I wasn’t at work. As my 20s slid into my 30s, I still wore mascara most days. I still owned lipsticks and liquid eyeliners and a vintage powder compact. I could still slap it on in the office toilet mirrors, under the arctic glare of a unisex lightbulb.
