One of my closest friends while I was growing up in the UK was May, an Egyptian who wore bell-bottoms and scrunchies and who lived in the same building complex as us. I was 12, she was 14; her parents were less strict than mine and so she had started to wear makeup. While hanging out after school one afternoon, she decided to “make me over”. With Ace of Base blasting from her stereo, she carefully drew eyeliner on to my lids and kohl along my waterlines before curling my lashes with mascara. When I looked in the mirror, I was shocked; it was as if I could finally see myself, as if I had somehow come into focus.
This was the first of many bonding experiences with the women of my life and with eyeliner: I’d later find myself reapplying it with girlfriends in the darkly lit bathrooms of Beirut’s seedy nightclubs; making panicked phone calls while wiping its smears off my face on the 73 bus, and layering it in solidarity with my sister as we rebelled against our conservative upbringing. Eyeliner was even there when I sat with my imposing grandmother, her hands shaky with age, but still steady enough to stencil her eyes.
