Your hands move. Your face reacts. You exist inside this thing—this collection of skin and bone, of habits and expressions. And yet, sometimes, it feels like a costume you didn’t exactly choose.
We catch ourselves in reflections we weren’t expecting, and for a split second, there’s a disconnect. Who is that? That’s me? But is it?
Makeup plays in this space. It lets us soften what feels too sharp, define what feels too vague. It can be a declaration—this is who I am—or an experiment—who could I be? It can help us feel more at home in our skin or remind us just how strange it is to live in a body at all.
There is no final version of you. No static, perfected self. Just choices, tiny tweaks, daily shifts. A little more color here, a little less structure there. Like a painter revisiting the same canvas, not to fix it, but to continue the work.
We don’t solve the uncanny nature of having a body. We just get better at making peace with it. And sometimes, that peace looks like a well-placed swipe of blush.
Photo: Imagine Images Photo