I’ve always worn a lot of make-up. At school I covered my lips in Dream Matte Mousse and applied so much mascara my lashes clumped together like spider’s legs. As a teenager my winged liner practically took up my whole lid. Now I do a sort of Lily-Rose Depp-inspired ’90s look with lots of lip liner and brown kohl in my waterline.
“Getting ready” is one of my favourite things in the world. But sometimes I worry about my reliance on make-up. The other night I was meant to go to a friend’s house party. I was a bit hungover so felt quite lazy, but she’s a new friend and I wanted to cement my place in her group. I wasn’t in the mood to drink, but it was only about a 20-minute walk away so I could have just had a few. I was about to get up when I thought about the process ahead of me, blending contour under my cheekbones, the sticky feeling of foundation sinking into my pores. I realised I couldn’t be bothered, so sat back down and curled up under my heated blanket and watched TikToks of people cleaning swimming pools until it was time to sleep.
I felt a bit miserable the next day. Did I really not go because I didn’t want people to see me without make-up? Am I actually going to let vanity get in the way of my social life? I don’t know where this insecurity about my face without make-up came from. I think I’ve always had it. At university I remember some guy friends talking about seeing the hot girl from our course in the gym and how they barely recognised her without make-up. I’ve come into work without it, and someone’s asked if I’m ill. Sometimes, when I look at myself without anything on, my face stops making sense to me – it’s this spongey, beige orb, and I find it hard to tell where it starts and where it ends. When guys stay over, I’ll carefully wipe around my mascara and eyebrows so that there’s still something there. I’ll feel reassured by the eye mask that will cover most of my face. I don’t like that I’m insecure about the natural version of me. I don’t want my reliance on make-up to stop me doing things. So I’ve decided to not wear it for a week and see what happens.
Days 1 and 2
This was easy because I didn’t have any plans except the gym and working in a café, and I’m comfortable doing those things without make-up anyway. You do feel slightly more invisible without make-up because people tend to check you out less. In some ways, that’s freeing; in others, I worry that I’m being forgotten. I don’t know how much I exist without people looking at me. On day two, my theory is upended when a guy asks for my number in the gym. I say I have a boyfriend because I don’t fancy him. When I think about it, I think that in life I’ve probably had more people ask for my number when I’ve been make-up free than when I’m really made up. I don’t know if that’s because men find me more attractive that way or whether I look more approachable, but either way, I’ll take it.
Day 3
A guy I’m seeing invites me over to his for dinner and a film. Normally I’d aim to put a bit of make-up on, say a slick of eyebrow mascara and lip liner, maybe some concealer on my spots, a dab of bronzer or blush, and then I’d get carried away and end up putting a whole face on. So it feels like a big deal to be barefaced. I panic the night before and put fake tan on my face so that at least my skin tone will be evened out. When I wake up, my skin is as orange as the inside of a cantaloupe melon. I send loads of deranged voice notes into the group chat calling myself an ugly worm, announcing that I hate myself. I go to the gym to try to calm down and nearly start crying on the machines when Gracie Abrams comes on. Afterwards I feel a bit better. I go home and shower, then he comes and picks me up in his car. His hand is on my thigh when he drives, and I look out the window because I’m embarrassed by how much I’m smiling. He doesn’t say I look nice, but I can tell he thinks so, and the whole no make-up thing feels like no big deal at all. We have sex, and it feels more intimate in my head for some reason. I guess because I’m showing this other version of myself.
Day 4
Normally, when I’m not wearing make-up, I’m dressed like a bit of a slob in tracksuit bottoms and a pyjama T-shirt that probably has hair dye stains on it. But I can’t do that today because I have lots of meetings with publishers. So I end up dressing up in a casual but cute outfit of dungarees and a chocolate-brown Afghan Penny Lane coat. I catch my reflection in a shop window, and I think I look nice, kind of younger. It strikes me how much what you’re wearing changes your face – the brown in the coat brings out my eyes, the denim complements my skin tone. I feel funny not wearing make-up because there’s this idea that a lot of the time you’re not “done” if you’re not wearing make-up, but I sit there and talk about my book and my plans for it and everyone takes me seriously.
Day 5
This is going to be difficult because I have a party to go to. On the way there I’m thinking of responses for when people comment on how different I look – but after I arrive and hide my booze in a kitchen cabinet, I tell my friend about the handyman who came around earlier and read me his poetry, and then we go and dance in the living room, and no one even seems to notice that anything has changed about me. I’m struck once again by how much more you care about yourself than anyone else does. We think these things make such a difference when really your face looks like your face. What you think is a horrendous picture taken at your worst angle will look fine to someone else. The rude thing you said to someone will fade away with the other noise they heard that evening. It’s soothing because it means you don’t have to worry so much about everything.
I’m glad I did this experiment. I know now that, if I’m on the sofa and can’t be bothered to do my make-up to go to a party, I don’t have to. It’s a lot less of a big deal than I thought. Still, most of the time, I will probably want to, because I find putting on make-up relaxing, and I like transforming into another version of myself – even if I’m the only one who sees her.
