After 15 years behind the brush, I’ve developed a peculiar sixth sense—one I never expected when I first started doing bridal makeup.
I can smell divorce.
Not literally, of course. But there’s a moment—a tension in the room, a deadness in the bride’s eyes, a tightening in her jaw when she says the name of her future spouse—that tells me something is off. The foundation on the skin is flawless, but the foundation of the relationship? Cracked.
And I’m not alone in this. Other wedding vendors—the hair stylists, photographers, and videographers—have whispered the same thing to me in quiet corners: You just know sometimes.
It’s not judgment or gossip. It’s observation. Intuition sharpened by repetition. You start noticing what love looks like when it’s performative… versus when it’s rooted. You see which brides feel like themselves and which feel like they’re disappearing.
That’s why I often recommend people watch the documentary 112 Weddings. It follows couples years after the big day. Some still laugh together. Some don’t speak at all. And that’s what makes the film—and this job—so hauntingly honest.
The honest truth: no amount of highlighter can disguise when the light is gone from someone’s eyes.
I’m not in the business of predicting divorces. I’m in the business of helping people feel like themselves on a day that often demands they perform. But over time, you notice the difference between someone glowing and someone just trying not to fall apart.
Some brides walk into my studio grounded, centered, radiant. Others walk in unsure, already negotiating with themselves.
And I’ll tell you something that might surprise you:
The ones who tear up during the bridal preview appointment, who speak gently about their partner, who glow without trying? They’re the ones who tend to make it.
The ones who overperform, who apologize for wanting what they want, who talk about the wedding but not the marriage?
Those are the ones I still think about.
This is why, at F.A.C.E., makeup is more than a look. It’s a checkpoint. A mirror moment. A pause to ask: Is this really who I want to be, and how I want to feel?
Because the photos will fade.
The dress will be boxed.
But the memory of how you felt—on the day the world looked at you—is forever.
And I want that memory to be honest.
Even if it means smelling the storm before the bouquet is tossed.