BEAUTÉ

Since childhood I have been fascinated by metamorphosis. How can one become different from what one is? The child I was, then the young girl, I found neither beautiful nor interesting. I could have dealt with not being interesting, but not being beautiful, or simply not being pretty, felt insurmountable. It is absurd: I was ready to die to become pretty; I was ready to become a pretty corpse. I wouldn’t have enjoyed that privilege – being pretty in the eyes of the world – since I would have been dead. But to be considered simply “not so pretty” seemed to be the worst stigma in the world.

My mother, a young woman in the 1970s, refused to wear make-up. I understand and I respect her choice. To her, make-up signified a form of subjugation, a submission to what was not yet called “patriarchy”. I, however, have always loved make-up. I think lipstick has helped me accept a mouth I found too large. It was the 1980s – my mouth was too big; it was vulgar because I was Black. That extreme, absolute red on my lips was a form of liberation. My lips are too big – so what? The red on my lips will not be diminished; on the contrary, it will be elevated, and my mouth along with it.

I painted my lips to stop being ashamed of them. I painted them an absolute red to reveal their opulent beauty and their abundance of flesh. I was not convinced that they were so beautiful in red, but they proclaimed that I no longer wished to feel humiliated by anything.

I am aware that, at times, it goes too far: I will never leave home without wearing make-up, even if only lightly applied. I can’t stand the idea of my neighbour being able to see my face bare. But why is that? The opinion and judgement of a neighbour, whose name I don’t even know, about my face without make-up should not bother me in the slightest. As a matter of fact, they wouldn’t even look at me and we barely cross paths. So why do I wear make-up whenever I move through the building? Why wear lipstick to take the rubbish out? Why apply foundation and eyeliner when, having just given birth, I was waiting for friends and loved ones to visit? I couldn’t bring myself, even in circumstances where it’s acceptable to look “tired”, to present my face in its nakedness, in the truth of what I had endured physically.

Make-up, for me, is an armour, a protective shell I can’t do without. To put on this “chainmail” every morning is an obligation and a pleasure. That is where my strength lies. And the most important part is, and always will be, lipstick. An extreme, imperious, sovereign red. I put on make-up as if getting ready to fight. These are the weapons I master. It is a strategy, a way to defend myself against this world, but also a way to reveal myself to it with kindness: I feel that, while wearing make-up, I am presenting myself with a mask of gentleness.

I will never stop wearing lipstick. It is a part of me. It is my soul and my heart. That red made me feel strong and free, made me accept my lips, my face, my very self. I love the scent of it. Lipstick smells sweet; foundation smells harsher, more raw – an odour I also deeply love.

I am not an actress, and yet make-up turns me into one every morning. Day after day, I deeply enjoy choosing the nuances: the shades of red, obviously, but also those of the eyeshadow, blush, powder, from the whole palette of tones that I play with depending on my mood. If I feel dark, I turn to exaggerated colours, as if their excess might bring me joy. And if I feel cheerful, discretion (relative, of course) will suffice. By putting make-up on, I play a role. I expose another version of myself that is maybe, after all, truer than what I believe myself to be.