I’m a lawyer with weird hobbies: like spending hours researching the etymology, history and origin of certain cocktails and alcohol. And being frustrated with the state of the world even after I’ve told myself not to read about the state of the world. And beginning sentences with the word “and.” None of the opinions I post here matter, and are often times probably pretty dumb; BUT, I promise there will at least be some humor injected somewhere in each post. And curse words…lots of curse words. And if reading superfluous opinions isn’t your thing (I don’t blame you), head over to the “Booze” section for cocktail recipes, history and stories! I do hope you don’t take this page too seriously and enjoy yourself while here.
You guys. I HAVE BEEN DOING MY FOUNDATION WRONG FOR FIVE YEARS. I’ve been doing foundation the way YouTubers and influencers do foundation and it’s WRONG.
Well, okay. Let me stop.
Nothing in makeup is “wrong.” You do you. You do what works best for your bone-enshrined meat sack—the skin type, the shape and the style.
But I found a technique that really works for me, and before I reached enlightenment, I had been squirting out two or three pumps of my $40-$50-dollar foundation on my hand, smearing it on my face and trying my best to spread it evenly on my face like buttercream icing and wondering why it always looked like plaster of Paris. I just figured my skin was too old and dry to accommodate the way my much younger and fairer beauty guru idols applied foundation, but NAY. I was just applying it like a 20-something plump-skinned goddess would, not considering my own skin-type and age.
Honeee.
There is no universal way to apply foundation, and Wayne Goss told me so.
BUT. For me, the key was tiny tiny bits of foundation that you build up with a brush. Trust me. Before Goss, I was hardcore sponge. Post-Goss, I realized just how much product you waste using a sponge. Sure it **blends**. But you lose so much of your very expensive foundation in the process and there is such a much better way of getting that air-brushed finish without wasting your hard-earned ca$h. So, the first thing you do is conceal.
I know. Crazy, right?
That way, you’re not going over the same place twice with double the product, thereby creating build-up and resulting cakiness. (trust me. Save the actual cake for a girl’s night in. In fact, Cupcake makes an amazing red blend called Red Velvet for like eight dollars. #eightdollarwine #proudmillenial)
Then, you pump 1 or 2 pumps of foundation on the back of your hand (or wherever), spread it around a bit on the back of your hand (or wherever)…then eversolighly dip your foundation brush in and stipple it onto your skin.
Now—the important thing that I somehow forgot to mention before you apply your foundation is to PREP your skin. Maybe I forgot to mention because it is something I do regardless of how I apply my foundation. You have dry skin? You moisturize. You have oily skin? You prime with a matte primer. You have combination skin? You fucking do both. For me, I hydrate my cheeks, under-eyes and jowl area (yep. That’s right. When you get old, you get JOWLS). I mattify my nose and forehead.
If you want more coverage, just stipple more product on—but in skinny skinny layers. Take your time. If you planned it right, you will have plenty. If you didn’t, get better at planning.
The result is near-flawless air-brush-finish foundation that you have all of the control over. You want light coverage? Fine. Medium coverage? O.K. Full coverage? You got it.
As far as the brand? My favorites are NARS and Too Faced. I had a foray with Il Makiage and feel I may not have given it a fair chance. I feel I was expecting full coverage when all I got was light-medium coverage. I will say Il Makiage’s matching quiz was SPOT ON. I don’t remember the finish. Finish, by the way, is supper important to me. I don’t want to look like a sheet of paper, but I also don’t want to look like Dr. Manhattan. Both NARS and Too Faced have mastered a seamless skin-like finish and both are super long-lasting.
I might re-order Il Makiage just to see—but for now, my ride-or-dies are NARS and Too Faced; and the technique is solidified, thanks to Goss.
I encourage you, however, to find a technique that works for your skin. Comment below what works best for you! In fact, I just saw some chick on TikTok use an actual paint spatula to apply her foundation then rubbed it in with her hands like lotion, and you bet yer balls I’m trying that one next.
I promised I would let you guys in on a drugstore gem in my last post, so here we go. Recently (and by “recently,” I mean two months ago; but in my mind, it’s still March so…the concept of time is evanescent at this point), I went to my folks’ “beach house” (it’s not actually on the beach, but since it’s not the main house—which is also not on the beach—and closer than 12 miles to a beach, it’s the “beach house”) for a weekend. The house is in a small beach town where the closest Ulta is…well, where I live; and the only restaurants are either dive bars or Taco Bells and gas stations. Suffice it to say, the local CVS is the only place to get makeup, and even it lacks the amount and variety of makeup the CVSs in more populated cities have.
This is a *proper Gimlet. It has nothing to do with makeup. I just wanted to flex my amazing bartending skills.
But why would you need makeup at the beach, you ask?
You don’t.
But it was raining that day, so instead of day drinking I figured I’d try a makeup challenge with whatever I found at the local CVS. So, full disclosure: I knew what I was getting into at the outset; but you can imagine my utter delight when I found the local CVS carried L.A. Girl—a brand hard to find in more well-stocked CVSs. Maybe whoever was in charge of stocking the makeup area at that CVS was some kind of young person refugee, trying to make a makeup oasis in a trailer park-slash-beach condo-old northwestern retiree-ridden town, where the only young people were born there and are already looking for ways to leave. Jesus, I make it sound like some snow bird dystopia. It’s not. It’s actually a very nice little town; but there is almost nothing there that bespeaks any kind of young-person population (no night life, no malls, no coffee shops or quirky restaurants…no Starbuck’s). So, there is not really anywhere to buy makeup other than CVS and I wanted to emphasize that aspect of this story to paint a better picture of the task I challenged myself with to pass time on a rainy day.
Anyway.
So I walk in and see the little L.A. Girl kiosk happily well-stocked with liners, concealers, lip products and shadows. Now, I already knew L.A. Girl’s concealers and neon liners were the stuff of legend, but I hadn’t tried the shadows yet. A brand’s flagship product does not necessarily mean all of its products are as good. For example, MAC makes glorious primers, strobe cream and highlighters, but their shadows leave much to be desired. The kiosk was stocked with both single pans and entire palettes. The palettes were $10 for 12 shades, and I figured why the fuck not and chose a dark neutral palette I could keep at the beach house and use for nights out…you know…if we ever get to do “nights out” again.
I also picked up Wet N’ Wild’s primer (another lesser-known, absurdly cheap drugstore gem), Wet N’ Wild’s liquid liner and L’Oreal’s dark nude lipstick (the most expensive product at $12). The moment I got back to the house, I swatched the palette, and you guys. There is fall-out to be sure (both pan and off the brush), but these colors were Pigmented (with a capital “P”). And they are creamy. And they are a Dream (with a capital “D”) to blend. The shimmers have amazing payout. If I had to compare it with a higher-end brand, I would say Tarte (who does an excellent job of making creamy, pigmented shadows…which have terrible fall out).
Oh, and that Wet N’ Wil liner?
Y’all.
I can never justify spending $18 on liquid liners again. This shit is fantastic. Liquid enough for a crisp smooth line, but creamy enough not to spider out in those little fine lines around your eyes. The formula is magical. The primer was nice, too—smelled very good; and the lipstick is great. The color is the best part. So, with my drugstore finds and some stuff I brought from home, I made this look.
Now, the idea was leave the palette at the beach house for use whenever I was up there; but I fell so much in love with it, I had to take it home. And now, I use it almost every day. The colors are perfect for a day-to-night look; or really any time you want a natural-y smoky eye. The liner has been used in countless looks since its purchase, such that I’m running low. So, the moral of this story? Don’t feel like you have to spend hundreds of dollars for quality makeup, and don’t let the Insta-culture shame you for buying your makeup at CVS. In fact, be proud of your street smarts. Also, challenge yourself. When you do, you reap rewards. Sometimes its confidence, and sometimes its eye shadow.
And look at all the other shit I did with this palette!
I had planned on sitting down and really thinking about what I would write before hopping on my laptop. But while I was contemplating my words over my blueberry muffin and coffee, I realized I would be sitting and thinking for a long time, and within that time, the raw emotions I’m feeling now may wane and I don’t want that to happen. When the Associated Press called Pennsylvania, I was doing a makeup look. I got a text from my cousin, saying Pennsylvania went blue and I stopped—mid-wing—ran out to the living room and literally jumped up and down. Ryan just looked at me for a few moments, because I couldn’t get the words out. I must have looked like an angry monkey, jumping up and down and wide-eyed. I screamed, “PA IS BLUE!!!” He cracked a big smile. I literally *frolicked* back to my makeup table and downloaded all of the songs the collective Tik Tok had designated as pro-Biden/anti-Trump/blue I could find so I could listen as I completed my very blue makeup look.
When the Associated Press called Biden…
…
You know, you don’t realize how much stress you carry on your shoulders until what is causing it is removed. I cannot put words to the feeling of relief and joy after I knew that fascist would no longer terrorize this country, other than to say I had an overwhelming urge to grab all of the blue things I had in my house, drive downtown and just DANCE in the streets.
As it happened, millions across the country had the same urge.
When I finally settled down for the evening, scrolling though my For You Page on Tik Tok, it was flooded with celebrations in the streets. People laughing, dancing, popping Champagne, embracing, waving Pride flags, and Biden flags, and Black Lives Matter flags, singing…
You guys.
I. Could not. Stop. Crying.
Everyone is so happy. And it has been four long years since I have seen people so goddamn happy. But it’s not just that WE THE PEOPLE extricated a corrupt authoritarian from OUR Whitehouse. It’s not just that our country had unprecedented record voter turn-out. It’s not just that the younger generation was SO inspired to participate in the democratic process.
People celebrate on Black Lives Matter plaza across from the White House in Washington, DC on November 7, 2020, after Joe Biden was declared the winner of the 2020 presidential election. – Democrat Joe Biden has won the White House, US media said November 7, defeating Donald Trump and ending a presidency that convulsed American politics, shocked the world and left the United States more divided than at any time in decades. (Photo by Eric BARADAT / AFP) (Photo by ERIC BARADAT/AFP via Getty Images)
No.
It is that all of these things lead to THE FIRST FEMALE VICE PRESIDENT. The first female BLACK Vice President.
Madam Vice President.
Madam. Vice. President.
All of the little girls in the United States of America who saw Kamala Harris win the vice presidency can now without question be assured that they will not be stopped from attaining the highest positions of power they can in this country. The United States is no longer an outlier in the free world. We are on the path to regaining our place of respect in the world.
Indeed, the world celebrated with America yesterday.
Church bells rang out in France.
Fireworks exploded into the skies in England.
People cheered from their windows in Canada.
World leaders congratulated Biden and Harris, signaling their excitement to work to undue the damage wrought by the last administration.
I came across this Tik Tok video of someone I follow. Her razor sharp wit and lightening fast tongue are what make her content so entertaining. She is a self-described “army brat,” and proud and out-spoken Liberal. A good portion of her content is clapping back at ignorant comments. But last night, she posted a video that was unlike her others. It was dark. She was in her jammies and in tears. And this is what she said:
I lost is because for four years, I could not bring myself to look at the American flag with anything other than contempt. We have a flag mount on our house—which house was purchased just after Cinnamon Hitler was elected. Ryan said, when we moved it, that we could buy an American flag. And while I smiled and said, “Yeah. We can do that,” my heart was not in it. For four years, that man raped America. He inspired hate and intolerance. He emboldened violence and ignorance. He gave his blessing to greed, selfishness and callousness. And his followers took OUR flag and used it as a symbol of support for this traitor and I could not bring myself to fly it outside OUR house.
After Emily’s post, I saw more and more videos of Americans putting their flags back out.
So what the fuck did I do?
I went online and bought a flag and a post, for ånext day delivery, so I could PROUDLY wave that star-spangled banner. Because today, as it did five years ago, it stands again for the American people and their collective perseverance to stand for what is right:
Life
Liberty
The pursuit of happiness
Equality
That. That is what this country stands for.
That is what America means to the rest of the world.
I gotta say—when I saw England celebrating Biden’s election, I ugly cried. It’s like your parents embracing you for putting the pills down and checking into rehab. That is what this will be: four years of healing. Four years of uniting. Four years of learning. Four years of fixing the damage.
And I am here for it.
I wasn’t on the front lines protesting. I didn’t volunteer for the campaign or at the polls. And I regret it. But, I still made a difference. Just like everyone else who filled out that ballot and dropped it off at the box; or who showed up on election day; or who voted early; or who placed their trust in our postal service and but that ballot in the mail…we did it. We were the change we wanted to see.
Ruth Bader Ginsburg has died. I never met her, and my understanding of her achievements and the impact they had on this country, (likely the world) were, until this post, only slightly better than anyone who has paid attention to the growing pop-culturization (this is not a word…but neither were a lot of words currently in Merriam Webster’s today, sooo) of politics. Her opinions were always my favorite to read during law school. If Lady Olenna Tyrell existed in real life, I imagine RBG wouldn’t be too far off, you know, sans the murdering children part.
RBG’s opinions were…pillars of reason. I’m not sure how else to describe them. Reading Ginsburg’s opinions was like turning a light on in a dark room, or when the auto-focus kicks in on your camera. In every opinion, she took the facts and law before her and made them make sense in a way that made any other interpretation seem absurd. What made her opinions so remarkable was not just the unadulterated and uncolored logic. It was that every opinion was founded on the principals of basic human decency, which she, above her peers was able to understand was not dependent upon social status, skin color, sex or religion.
They were also heckin’ sassy. Reading RBG’s opinions is that feeling you get when your much smarter, well-read, meticulous older sister steps in on a Facebook post to show some plebian just how utterly wrong they are. My favorites were when RBG subtly-but-not-so-subtly called Scalia out on his bullshit. But we didn’t just loose a smart sassy justice who wrote thought-provoking, highly amusing opinions.
We’ve lost a legend.
We’ve lost a hero.
I may not be doing what I am doing now were it not for her heroism. She paved the way not only for female attorneys and judges but for all women who aspired for more than kitchen-crawling breeding stock.
Before she became a justice sitting on the highest court in this country, Ginsburg was a clerk, law professor, and ultimately served as general counsel for the ACLU after having been accepted to Harvard Law, being on the Harvard Law Review, and then ultimately graduating from Columbia Law at the top of her class. The movie, On The Basis of Sex was about a case she argued before the Tenth Circuit Court of Appeals. And while seminal, it was not the case that toppled the “whole damn system of discrimination,” as portrayed in the movie. In actuality, the case that set the precedent for gender-based discrimination was Reed v. Reed, a case before the Supreme Court.
That case arose from a conflict between Cecil and Sally Reed who were arguing which should be designated administrator of the estate of their deceased son. Each filed a petition with the Probate Court of Ada County, Idaho asking to be named. Idaho law at the time specified that “males must be preferred to females” in appointing administrators of estates, prompting the court to appoint Cecil over Sally. Sally challenged the ruling and her case made it all the way up to the Supreme Court, where Ginsburg, along with Mel Wulf (also portrayed in On the Basis of Sex) drafted a brief.
Hundreds of laws were changed after Reed. Indeed, Congress went through all of the provisions of the U.S. Code and changed almost all that classified overtly on the basis of sex so Congress and the Supreme Court were in sync. Ginsburg went on to win five of the six cases she actually argued before the Supreme Court.
The monumentalness (another word that doesn’t exist) of this is incomprehensible. Ginsburg changed the law. In a country, nay—in a world—run by men. In a time when women were perceived as intellectually inferior, and relegated to secretarial, administrative or customer care roles, Ginsburg muscled right up along side her male counterparts, unfazed by the fact she didn’t have dangly bits, and changed the law.
So when I say we’ve lost a legend, I mean it. Ginsburg was THEE national treasure Nicholas Cage should have tried to steal (though not sure how that would work practically).
There are a lot of people out there who are scared now. But while RBG was the personification of the U.S. Constitution, her death will not mean the fall of this country (though it certainly feels like it). She did not think that and sure as shit wouldn’t want others to think that. No. She would want us to continue fighting. I will leave you with these words, straight from the National Treasure’s mouth:
Social constructs dictating what constitutes “professional.” It’s the reason I feel I can’t (read, actually can’t) wear colorful eyeshadow to work, have rainbow hair, a neck tattoo (only tangentially related to this conversation, I know) or otherwise have nice things. Like when Cinnamon Hitler banned TikTok.
Like.
Really?
We’re not concerned with Russian interference with the U.S. voting system or tickling world war three by poking a sociopath, but when youngsters use a social media platform to fuck with your rally metrics, the app becomes a threat to national security. Cheeto Jaba is another reason we can’t have good things, but that’s for another post.
We’re here to talk about THE COLORS.
The colors that I’ve been very into over the past few weeks. I mean, I’ve always been a fan of cute bright colored doors, flower gardens, Lisa Frank and otherwise the entire colorwheel; but these past few weeks it’s been hitting a little differently. Maybe because the only places I’ve been over the past 4 months are my bedroom and the kitchen. Or, maybe because I’ve questioned whether I’m not cut out to be a lawyer more times in the past two weeks than I’ve changed my underwear. Or perhaps it’s the recently nightly battle between drafting just one more motion or spending one more hour with Ryan before I drag my creaking knees and calcified traps into bed to do it all over again the next day.
Who knows.
Whatever the cause, I’ve found my makeup looks become more and more akin to tree frogs and I’m in fact living for it because as it happens, colors make me happy. Colors actually make everyone happy. It’s a thing. Like a science thing. It’s part of the reason gray, black and white are associated with negative things like dull, dreary, dark and numb. Think about it. Think about the words associated with colors: vibrant, bright, vivid, fucking rainbow. In fact when you type “colorful” in to a thesaurus, one of the tabs is “full of life.” It’s true. I just did it.
As it happens all but two of my palettes are different versions of the rainbow. Probably my favorites are the James x Morphe and Intergalactic by Jolie Beauty. Both are decently pigmented and have really great colors. I’ve not tried the more pigmented Lime Crime, Sugar Pill or the like mostly because I’m cheap. But these palettes do the job just fine.
As for the combinations, it’s hard to put colors together in a way that doesn’t turn out like mud on your face! I’ve been drawing inspiration from other creators in Instagram, tropical birds and tree frogs because they seem to be able to pull it off just fine. After you get your colors planned, it’s just a matter of putting the darker ones where you’d typically put darker colors, and lighter colors where you’d typically put lighter colors. In other words, darker colors in the outer corners and creases and lighter colors on the lid, inner corner and brow bone. You can even throw some color on the brow itself because why the fuck not?
I’ve also found using a shadow primer on the lid gets you the best color pay off. I happen to have Mac’s paint pot because my mom was told to buy it for some reason a long time ago at a Mac store and just never used it. So it’s mine now. As it happens the stuff is a color magnet. I’d considered buying the P Louise stuff, but the paint pot works great.
I know I “should” include a variety of looks on my Instagram page, but I want to ride the color train for as long as I’m feeling it—not just because it’s pretty but because I’m a big proponent of listening to subtle cues from your body and right now, I think I need every little bit of happy I can draw from anything I can get. And I think it’s not just me. I think it’s everyone right now.
So wear colors. Drink a glass of wine. Watch the sunset. Open the window.
So I made a Tik Tok I’m not yet sure I’ll publicly post because I’m afraid of the feedback I’ll get. It actually took my brain several tries to reach that conclusion; rather than “oh, it’s too personal;” “why would you share your baggage with complete strangers? No one is on Tik Tok for that shit;” “you’re just doing it for attention;” and “you’re going to make other people feel bad.” Now, to be perfectly clear: OF COURSE I DO TIK TOKS FOR ATTENTION. Like, duh. That’s why anyone does TikTok—whether it’s personal attention, or drawing attention to a certain cause or idea. The more followers you have, the more attention you’ve gained, and the bigger your platform.
Also, to be clear: I’m not popular—never have been. The most friends I ever had at any given time was three and I was always on the outside looking in to the popular kids’ cliques; even when I ostensibly was one of the popular kids—if by name alone—being in a sorority in college. Even then, I was the outlier (and I often question if it was even worth it, given the stress to fit in and meaningfully contribute to an organization where it was clear the only things that mattered were numbers and looks).
Okay, I have to digress just a little because I still maintain contact with at least one sister and greatly respect and consider her a good friend—though I admit I didn’t really start connecting with her until after we both graduated. And there was another sister who ultimately inspired me to choose the sorority I did, and who is so cool she could be the main character of an adventure novel.
End of digression.
I say all that to emphasize the fact that I have 8,000 followers on Tik Tok is absurd to me.
And I tell you the amount of followers I have on Tik Tok to support my hesitance to post something intimately personal and potentially triggering—in part because I’m afraid of the feedback and don’t want to have to explain the 18 years of history that bore it. But also because I’m afraid it will make some of my followers—or really anyone whose For You page the video happens to end up on—feel bad. So, why would I still consider posting it? I haven’t really reached a logical answer for that yet; only to conclude the same reason anyone posts anything on any social media platform: it’s a method of expression and expressing yourself and your thoughts and feelings feels good (at least until Karen slips into the comment section).
So.
I’m talking about it here.
Here, I have the ability to explain the 18 years of baggage that inspired that 10 second video.
So. Now that you’ve seen it, you may think, “that wasn’t bad at all—I see those types of videos all the time.” Or, you may think, “really? You were never one of the unpopular or unpretty girls. STFU, you attention-seeking whore.” <– And that. That, right there folks is why I was hesitant to post it. And the thing is, even though this hypothetical commenter has no idea who I am, what I’ve been through or my psychological state, it tells me two things. First: I’ve made them feel bad. I’ve triggered something within them to the point they felt it necessary to diminish my personal internal accomplishments. Second: it makes me feel guilty for feeling the way I feel and for posting something like that.
So, we come to the primary reason for this post; we need to talk about inner battles, losses and victories and the importance of empathy. Let’s start with my recent struggles with something that should have stopped after I graduated high school.
When I was in middle school, I blossomed early and was blessed* with gigantic knockers. As a 13 year old, I was NOT ready for the attention. Especially as one of the outcasts (I didn’t fit into any of the cliques in middle school). I was not prepared for the looks I got outside of middle school from grown men. I was not prepared for the nick-name “Pamela.” I played it off then, only to run head-long into an full-blown eating disorder a few years later. I won’t go into numbers, because I don’t want this to become something someone can use to measure themselves. But I will say I was admitted against my will because my parents were afraid my heart would stop.
None of my clothing fit.
My skin was ashy.
I was growing hair in places I never had before, and the body hair I did have was longer.
I was tired all the time.
I never stopped thinking about food (this was likely what prompted me to go to culinary school).
I almost never pooped.
I weighed myself every day, sometimes multiple times per day and measured everything that went into my mouth to the teaspoon.
Whether I fit in to a clique didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was whether I could beat the weight I was the day before. Whether I could eat less than I did the day before. It became a deadly game I played with myself. I think one of the things some people may not understand about Anorexia Nervosa is the addiction factor. You become addicted to losing weight, and if you gain any or eat something additional or outside of your self-imposed regiment, you’re a failure. A dirty, fat, undisciplined, disgusting failure. After we returned from the children’s hospital, mom made me eat something past the time I usually ate, and more than what I had been eating.
I ate one slice of bread with fat-free cream cheese at 4:30 in the afternoon and was literally sobbing as I put the bread in my mouth and chewed. I was on the kitchen floor sobbing because I was eating.
I was a horror after that. Nothing of that had to do with hormones.
I had amenorrhea and had fucked up my lady cycle so much, I didn’t have a predictable period until my late twenties. I was hyper-aware of the changes in my body as I put more weight on. My thighs began to touch again. I could no longer feel my posterior superior iliac spine through my skin. My sternum was fading away behind flesh and muscle tissue again, and I fucking hated it. I was in and out of shrinks’ offices for years, and when I moved away to New York for culinary school and then to college, I relapsed. I relapsed again in law school (though not as bad as it was in undergrad).
Now, 18 years after my diagnosis, I can only say I’m a functional Anorexic. I still exercise too much and eat too little. I still like the look of my bones through my skin. I still will not like going out if I feel bloated. But my vitals are good and I can think about things other than food. I can now recognize when I’m being unreasonable about my body.
And most importantly, I have come to start loving my body. I have come to be impressed with it—especially for the absolute SHIT I put her through.
Reminding myself of this is less difficult, though when I’m happy with my weight. It is monumentally more difficult to remember this when I’m not a weight I’m comfortable with.
Such as is the case now.
Quarantine has really fucked up my routine. I’m eating more and exercising less, and exercising differently. I’m not running as much or as long. I’m dancing and doing more core exercising, and I can no longer fit into my clothes the way I used to. For weeks, I was slowly getting more and more freaked out. It didn’t change my eating or exercising habits, e.g., I didn’t eat less or exercise more(a learned victory), but I felt worse and worse about myself.
Until yesterday.
Literally. Yesterday.
My triggers are my thighs. I hate them. Always have. I hate their shape and how they touch. Having small hips makes it even worse. I have to be starving again to get them to a point where they don’t touch. But I drank the thigh gap Cool-Aid and that shit’s hard to give up. I’d come to accept my legs and thighs, and had actually grown to like them…a little…before quarantine. They were lean and my abductors were small. They still touched, but the shape was something I could live with. But because I ate more and stopped running as much, that shape changed to where they were thicker and my abductors got bigger.
And until yesterday, I couldn’t even LOOK at my lower body without wanting to cry.
But yesterday, I woke up (with a hangover) and did my little morning 10-minute stretch and dance routine. I happened to look at my legs in the mirror while doing a ballerina-y thing and saw how muscular they’d gotten. Like, I could see the muscle striations in my thighs and calves—something I had never seen before. They looked like someone else’s legs: a dancer’s legs. I’ve watched enough dancing YouTubes to be utterly impressed with the machines dancers train their bodies to be, and saw that my new legs emulated those dancers I held in such high regard.
At that moment, I told myself “I’m sorry and I love you.”
Maybe I can’t see my bones anymore, but I can see my muscles. And those muscles are the product of weeks of hard work. And maybe my pants fit a little tighter, but I know now it’s because I’m stronger. Maybe not Terry Crews stuffing himself into a button-up strong, but in my mind, damn close.
So.
This brings me close to the end of this post. I’m not going to suggest you love yourself because I know how hard it is. I know it’s the product of a journey—for some, a longer journey than for others. But I am going to suggest you understand yourself. Remove your logical brain from your emotional brain and just observe. Look at yourself through a friend’s eyes and imagine what they would see. It’s kind of like self-empathy.
Similarly, in learning to understand yourself and forgive yourself, you learn to understand others and to forgive others (trust me it’s hard. PARTICULARLY hard nowadays with the divisiveness in this country now). But it’s a start. And I promise: if you have the wherewithal to stop yourself from reacting and think about why you’re reacting, and about the person who has said or done something to make you react, you won’t be as mad or sad.
I promised the next post I did would be a product review. The bad news is, I haven’t actually purchased anything new. The good news is, I still have some of my favorite concealer left, which in my head, justifies this post going forward…even though I don’t need to physically possess something to review it…Well, I mean—I like taking pictures of my own stuff rather than using stock or manufacturers’ photographs and I’m terrible at planning ahead, so I guess to the extent I still have a tube of the stuff I’m going to review handy for photographs, I’d need to be in physical possession of the thing I’m reviewing.
But I digress.
A long time ago, in a mind set far far away, beauty guru, Desi Perkins convinced me to buy NARS’ longwear foundation. And I was not disappointed. In fact I was not disappointed so much so that I abandoned my favorite drug store concealer and took the second step in the pool that was high-end makeup (and consequently, bone-dry bank accounts). It was Jamie Genevieve, however, who sealed the deal and the shade.
It’s kind of an unwritten law that the concealer you buy “should” be a shade (or two?) lighter than your natural skin because it’s supposed to be used to conceal darker spots and sometimes to highlight. But Genevieve, during one of her rare natural look tutorials, used NARS’ Radiant Creamy Concealer in a shade that matched her foundation. By the way, I just realized I just now mentioned the concealer and have been stringing you guys along for the last three paragraphs like a D suspense movie or those YouTube videos that promise something in the title, but don’t give it to you until the literal END of the video.
See the tiny scrape marks under the “S”? Yeah…I’m that low.
Sorry.
But…did it work?
Clearly. You’re still here, you poor poor sap.
Now. When I did (and I guess still do…I mean, I haven’t gone out out since February) makeup, I did the whole nine: primer, foundation, concealer, setting powder and spray. I’m still not really sure why, other than all the beauty gurus I watch do it. But, if you really stop to think about the purpose of all that flesh-colored paint, you’d realize (as I did) that it is to hide discoloration. That’s really it. It certainly doesn’t hide uneven texture, zits or wrinkles; and that nonsense about creating a blank canvas for makeup is just that, because what happens afterward is essentially re-drawing much of what you’ve just erased (your cheekbones, nose, eye sockets, and in some cases, you lips). Honestly, during quarantine, I came to find applying a full face of foundation and concealer was counter-intuitive.
That said, I realize another really cool aspect of makeup is the ability to change the shape of your face using contour and highlights, which is certainly easier to achieve with said blank canvas (though as discussed in one of my other posts, you can change the shape of your eyes with a bit of shadow and liner). Anyway, this all leads me to why I love NARS Radiant Creamy concealer: it’s ability to seamlessly blend into your skin when spot concealing.
Like.
Shit’s magical.
It helps—as with ANY concealing product—to prep/prime your skin before-hand. I have combination skin, with some of the dry parts under my eyes—which is where I use the concealer. So I moisturize and, if I’m feeling sassy, prime that area before I apply anything (that goes for full-face and spot concealing days). I also have some discoloration around my nostrils and just below my bottom lip. I use a blending brush by NYX (the Can’t Stop Won’t Stop brush available for $15). The only place I apply just the tinsiest bit of setting powder is under the eyes. And I mean tiny—like the stuff left over on the brush from yesterday. Like if a bee sneezed pollen from 5 miles away; or if a fairy farted in Neverneverland last Tuesday kind of tiny.
This concealer—much like it’s big sister, the longwear foundation—just m e l t s into the skin. And the color is spot on (haha, pun intended) for me. Coverage is high. it does precisely what it’s supposed to do: conceal discoloration; which is precisely why it’s such a great option for spot concealing.
If I’m being completely honest, putting on a full face of makeup EVERY time I do a TikTok or Insta-shoot has become onerous. AND, in the sunlight, the foundation only amplifies the flaws I’m trying to hide. So for ME, it’s just not worth it. I have far less discoloration issues as I have uneven texture: roughness, big ol’ pores, fine lines and zits.
All of these ^ were done with zero foundation.
In fact, I found that If I properly exfoliated and hydrated shortly before applying makeup, that inherent dewy translucence you get with healthy skin which foundations try to emulate helps hide the uneven texture; and I guess to a certain extent, taking care of your skin prevents and sometimes treats said issues. In my case, the uneven texture is still there; but if my skin is hydrated and exfoliated and in the right light, the lack of foundation actually creates a blurred effect. It makes sense if you think about it: the less stuff layered on an imperfection means less the light can cling to to make a shadow.
So , what I’ve been doing for my TikToks (especially since most of my characters don’t require tons of makeup) is spot concealing, contouring with a liquid contour and highlighting. That’s it. Eye makeup when necessary –like for my pirate. And I have to say—I used this technique (technique? Um…method? Process? Idk.) for the first time in a more glam Insta-shoot and LOVED the results. So, this may be my new thing. I mean, don’t get me wrong: I love to go the whole nine every now and again (it just feels fancy), but this spot concealing is just so effin’ practical and in keeping with the actual purpose of fleshy face paint: to erase discoloration.
Verdict? NARS Radiant Creamy is my ride or die. There are others, like Shape Tape and Maybelline which are great for other purposes; but I feel NARS checks all the boxes: high coverage, highly blendable, big ol’ shade range and long-wearing. It ain’t cheap; but it is worth it.
I think we can all agree 2020 has been the universe’s version of World War II, and us humans are Poland. One hit after another after another, and our pneuma is in shreds. We’re t i r e d. Or at least, I am. On top of you know, the world ending, my firm is just marching happily along piling more and more cases on me after I recently lost my very bright, very self-sufficient associate to a Gen Z pre-life crisis. I, along with I’m sure most other largely sane people, turn to hobbies to escape the world a little; and before May, for me that included primarily makeup on Instagram and painting. But when my husband fell victim to the cyber cocaine that is Tik Tok, he took me with him.
The song isn’t about dolls at all, but the aesthetic totally fits.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve played little movies in my mind—mostly while listening to music, and have never had the tools or talent to bring them to life. While I can’t make any kind of cinematic masterpieces like I fantasize about in my head, Tik Tok is as close as I can get, and I find it immeasurably satisfying to bring what small amount of it that I can to life. Instagram was always too static for me; and I felt as though there is almost a particular decorum with Instagram—especially in the beauty community. Like, there was a certain way I felt I had to present my content, and it wasn’t really “me.” Sure, I loved creating makeup looks, but I never felt I could convey any other aspect of myself.
I can be the weird, goofy, nerdy, and absolutely maniacal human every one of my family and friends knows me to be. AND PEOPLE FOLLOW ME FOR IT! To be perfectly clear, the satisfaction of creating is enough. I get to put makeup and costumes on and pay around in front of a camera with all kinds of filters and effects and sounds and it’s SO much fun. But, to have people actually like the stuff I do and follow me to watch more stuff? That’s just fucking magical.
Most of my content is original cosplay stuff—and I use that in the loosest of terms. I maybe have two original characters that I actually consistently play. All the other makeup and dress-up videos are whims. But the video with the most feed back I’ve posted? It’s just me. Going absolutely ape shit in front of my iPhone to the Numa Numa song. That’s one of the things I love about this platform: you can just be your weird self and have fun and get positive feedback. I don’t feel the pressure to fit a certain image or vibe. I can be badass in one video; a sexy person (or at least I try. My sexy is broken, so I probably just look humorously pathetic) in another, and a freaky fuck-o in the last, and no one cares! But the more important thing is NEITHER DO I!
Now. We all understand that your value as a human is and should never be contingent on how many little thumbs-ups or hearts you get in a week. That’s stupid. If you create and put out content, your first and most important motivator should be that you enjoy being creative and are having fun.
But.
Getting the positive feedback isn’t not nice.
Does it guide the direction or frequency of my content? FUCK no.
Does it feel good? FUCK yes.
And all the more feels that the positive feedback is just for me being me. And that is refreshing. We all play lots of roles as we walk (or dramatically crawl) along this journey called life and sometimes we lose the essence that is us. We are professionals, social butterflies, moms, dads, friends, business people; but in the quiet of our bedrooms, if we are not too exhausted, we are us. To me, this silly little app affords the best platform to rediscover me (sorry, Gen Z. Get TF over it. Millenials have found TikTok and we ain’t going NOWHERE).
I know my posts have mostly been the “bullshittery” part of this blog. Just me rambling on about stuff that matters to me. But in my defense, I haven’t been to a Sephora or Ulta since February; and since I’ve not left the house except for food and deodorant (Publix doesn’t carry the stuff I like), I’ve had no reason to buy more makeup. Besides. All the money I’ve saved from $14 cocktails and restaurants is being funneled to home improvements because I’m a soulless adult.
Most of the Insta-looks have been used for TikTok videos
I am, however, running low on my favorite concealer—(don don DON)—which I will reveal in my next post and give you guys the low-down on why this concealer is worth its price (and by “price” I mean more than what you find in CVS. Don’t panic. I don’t buy makeup from department stores like Neiman Marcus [RIP] and am the kind of person who will wait until her shoes have literally fallen apart before buying new ones).
Anyway.
I do still post to the Insta—but at far less frequency. But I’m planning on shifting the aesthetic from traditional “beauty community” to something a little more creative (thanks to Tik Tok). Putting more effort into the shoots, so it’s not just me pouting into the back camera of my iPhone.
I’ve been mad before. 95%of the times I get mad are at myself for doing something stupid. The other 4.9% of times are at my family or husband for pointing out that I’ve done something stupid which I wasn’t ready to admit to myself. The last 0.1% of the times I get angry are at other people—and almost always in traffic situations. Either that or I turn on the news in time to catch the latest from the little orange man in the White House. The point is, I’m generally not an angry person (I hear my husband snorting in the other room as though he hears the words I’m typing).
It’s true!
I don’t like controversy and I’m non-confrontational. If you cut me off in traffic, I’ll curse and spit at you in my car, but the moment I see you face to face, I’ll want to apologize for wishing death on your pet goldfish.
So.
When I say that I have been angrier in this past 13 days than the culmination of my 33 years on earth, know it is coming from someone who will apologize to opposing counsel on behalf of opposing counsel for raising his voice at me. I was always tangentially aware of the systemic racism in this country as well as systemic abuse of power by police. But my woefully naïve little white self thought the racism was steadily dying down, like hot embers after a bonfire. And I always thought—based on my own VERY limited interactions with cops—that there were indeed only a “few bad apples” (though I recognized the need to take swift action in condemning those rotten apples).
Photo Credit: Detroit Free Press
I’d always had black friends growing up; went to college and law school, where there was always a diverse group of people in every class (Stetson is a private institution that prides itself on its diverse student body and has scholarships and programs in place to encourage perpetuation of that diversity). One of my best best friends is black and THE funniest person I know (sorry, Niki. You gotta admit, Cindy could quit her job now and make it big as a stand-up comedian). She’s also one of the smartest people I know. But as I’m writing this, I realize she is one of three of people of color I currently know and communicate with. The rest of my (very) small circle of friends is white.
Why is that?
Because the legal field is fucking hard to break into—for white, rich, privileged kids. For black kids, it’s nearly impossible. You need LOTS of money to go to law school. But before that, you need really good grades to go to college and law school. And that means, you need to do well in high school, which in turn means your high school needs to provide you with the necessary tools and training to make those good grades. And that rarely happens. I encourage you to read Success and Failure: How Systemic Racism Trumped the Brown v. Board of Education Decision, by Joe Feagin and Bernice McNair Barnett in the Illinois Law Review (http://illinoislawreview.org/wp-content/ilr-content/articles/2004/5/Feagin.pdf) for a detailed discussion of why schools are effectively still segregated and how it has impacted POCs’ ability to achieve the same academic levels as their white peers.
Minnesota State Police officers approach a crowd of protesters, in Minneapolis on May 30th 2020.
Like me, most (white) kids don’t spend time in college or law school thinking about why there aren’t more black, brown or yellow kids in their classes. And when they grow up, they don’t spend time thinking about why there aren’t more black, brown or yellow adults in their office with law degrees on their walls. We don’t think about it because it doesn’t effect us. We don’t think about it until the news deems a particularly egregious story of a person of color being killed because he or she is a person of color. And even then, we think, “That’s got to be a one-off. It’s 2020! We just got out of two terms of our first black president. There’s no ‘systemic’ racism in this country anymore!”
Except that 400 years of oppression doesn’t just “go away” in a handful of decades.
And I was among those who just did not internalize how institutionalized racism actually is until George Floyd died because a white police officer abused his power and used excessive force in George Floyd’s (questionable) arrest.
Because before George Floyd, I did not have Tik Tok.
I’m sorry.
….wut?
That’s right, folks: Tik Tok.
After Floyd’s death, people took to the streets yet again to peacefully remind everyone that black lives matter as much as white lives, and those people were uploading those peaceful protests to TikTok. And Tik Tok (after no small amount of convincing) gave those people a platform.
During the first week after Floyd’s death, the only videos that were on my For You page were protests. And let me tell you: never has my trust been broken as fast as my trust in the police was dashed to the ground in jagged shards before in my life. NOT EVEN WHEN I FOUND OUT SANTA WASN’T REAL. My trust is hard to break, and I trust WAY too easily. You tell me you need $500 to get your 90-year old grandma out of jail for egging a house? Give me time to get to an ATM.
Photo Credit: Aljazeera
The shit I saw these protesters filming hurt my stomach. Never have I wanted to actually do violence to another human being (unless you cut me off in traffic, but as soon as I pass you, looking angrily into your driver side window and see your face, I’m immediately sorry for thinking bad things) before I saw how cops were treating lawful, peaceful protestors. I. Wanted. Blood. I wanted THEM to be teargassed. I wanted THEM to be pushed clear off their feet. I wanted THEM to me maced. Shit—I wanted THEIR TEN-YEAR OLD DAUGHTERS TO BE MACED.
That.
That’s how angry I was. I was so angry that I wished harm on the police officer’s hypothetical ten-year-old daughter. And I was horrified that I thought those things. But as the videos continued flooding my For You page, my anger increased. I lost sight of why the protesters where protesting and focused on my hatred for the flagrant abuse of power and absence of accountability that at one point I couldn’t logically connect the Black Lives Matter movement with the End Police Brutality movement. It wasn’t until videos of counter-protesters started popping up that the connection was re-forged. And it was re-forged and reinforced with hundreds of years of blood, oppression and disregard for human life.
Those counter-protesters.
Stop right there and process “counter-protesters.”
Think about the movement being protested: BLACK. LIVES. MATTER.
Now.
Think about the counter to that and guess what those counter-protesters looked like.
Just when I thought my anger could not be more ferocious, all of a sudden I was on fire and frothing at the mouth. My husband tried talking sense into me: these people are ignorant. They were raised to think black lives don’t matter and had no access to any other information. They were indoctrinated into a cult of hate and had no practical way of seeing beyond it. The people they love most—their brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers—all think the same way; and because they love them, they could not possibly think such dangerous hateful things.
Bullshit.
Photo Credit” The Economist
I guaran-damn-ty you every single ONE of those hateful shit stains identifies as Christian. And while I’m no theologian, I know enough about Jesus and the Bible to understand HATING OTHER PEOPLE BECAUSE THEY ARE A DIFFERENT COLOR (or sex, or gender) is NOT part of the teachings of Christ. I guaran-fucking-ty you, there is not a religion or philosophy, or moral code ON THIS EARTH that teaches hating other people is A-O.K. (obviously people take said teachings out of context to support their own agendas, but I’m not talking about bastardization of religious or moral texts. I’m talking about the texts themselves. In my studies about religion, I learned there was one common thread: Religion is really just a moral code enforced by the fear of going to a bad place when you die if you’re an asshole; and encouraged with going to a good place when you die if you’re not an asshole).
I also guaranty you ALL of those diseased Neanderthals have access to the internet, and thus to information outside of their cult’s three sources of news (Fox, Rush Limbaugh and InfoWars). The information is there. The will or interest to explore that information is not, and I am not prepared to accept that their indoctrination into their hateful little cult was so deep as to extinguish the curiosity that all humans have for knowledge.
That’s kind of what makes us us.
That’s why we have skyscrapers and space rockets, while the dolphins still just have fish.
So. After witnessing people PROTESTING AGAINST EQUALITY (like…typing that was hard), I did some research. Watched some videos, read some articles, became just a little more knowledgeable, and reestablished the connection in my brain between police brutality and racism. It can be condensed as follows:
Police are more likely to believe a black person has committed a crime than a white person.
That’s it.
And it’s not just police. It’s everyone.
Everyone is more likely to believe a black person committed a crime than a white person despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary because black people have been considered second-class citizens since this country’s birth. I’m going to quote a paragraph from the Washington Post that made my muffin start coming back up my esophagus:
If we look at shooting deaths of unarmed people, cops have shot and killed about the same number of whites and blacks, which means an even wider racial disparity as a percentage of the population. This is probably because when interacting with black people, police officers seem more likely to see innocuous movements — or even efforts to comply with their orders — as threatening. (As I’ve written here before, these “unarmed” figures can also be misleading. They often rely on police reports, which tend to portray events in a light favorable to police. They also imply that the deceased was the aggressor. That isn’t always the case, such as when police mistakenly or illegally break into an innocent person’s home.)
Police see efforts made by black people TO COMPLY WITH ORDERS as threatening.
Police will LIE on police reports (this article softens what is actually happening)
Police will BREAK INTO THEIR FUCKING HOUSES AND SHOOT THEM.
Photo Credit: Vanity Fair
Now. I want to stop and clarify something: I do not think all cops are bad and do not use the ACAB hashtag, because that would be falling into the same mindset as those shit stains I mentioned earlier. Not all cops are bad. The problem is, many ARE, and they are not being held accountable for their actions. The other problem is, policing is NOT a profession that can accommodate a “few bad apples” because policing is the only profession that legally allows one human to KILL another human without repercussion, and based entirely on that human’s subjective understanding of the law and your actions. It also doesn’t fucking help that a lot of officers DON’T KNOW OR INTENTIALLY BREAK THE LAW THER ARE TASKED WITH ENFORCING.
So. I’m fucking angry. I’m enraged that in THIS COUNTRY, a group of armed humans can go around killing other humans FOR NO FUCKING REASON AND GET AWAY WITH IT.
This is a situation where the mold has grown on bottom of every slice of bread in the bag and on random tiny places in the center of each slice so you can’t even cut the bad part off.
THROW. THE. WHOLE. THING. OUT.
There was a point to this blog other than expression of unbridled rage.
Get your voice heard.
Support black-owned businesses. Support black creators on social media platforms.
I have deep-set, slightly down-turned eyes and I hate them. Spare me the “but you should always love yourself and the way God made you” argument because first: I don’t believe in God (I’m capitalizing the “G” because I studied 4 years of religion and learned it was respectful to do so).
Okay.
Let me clarify.
It is healthy to maintain a positive body image, as well as to ignore (or try to) cultural “norms” which operate to pressure you into shaming yourself for not meeting whatever arbitrary body aesthetic is trending at the moment. I maintain that.
BUT.
It is ALSO OKAY to admire a particular aesthetic—whether it is encompassed within the evanescent trend or not—so long as that aesthetic does not require mental or physical detrimental consequences…such as starving yourself or undertaking dangerous medical procedures.
I like purple eyes. Fight me.
I’m a lawyer. What do you want.
This is also very complicated in these times. You are shamed for not fitting a cultural norm and shamed for fitting into the cultural norm. Sometimes, you can’t fucking win. But here is something that is ALWAYS true: you are allowed to like stuff. Whether it be a particular body type or celery (ew.) We do not live in a country (ideally…I mean, there is some divisive shit going down at the moment) where your thoughts are not policed; and while I encourage healthy thoughts, the truth remains you are permitted your thoughts. I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you like something, it’s usually okay (unless…you know…it’s wearing your mother’s skin as a camisole).
And I?
I like the look of upturned eyes. Indulge my inner hipster when I say I like upturned eyes BEFORE the whole “foxy eye” trend was made popular by one of those Hadid people. To me, it just lifts your entire face and makes you look more angular. Coming from someone who has consigned herself to forever child (round eyes, round face, round nose, tiny ears, and basically possessing the soul of a bunny in a human), looking more…not three…is appealing to me.
So.
Because I’m not a huge fan of messing with my face bones or meaty meaty bone-covering, I have to resort to makeup to achieve the look I want. And makeup is a magical thing. Before CGI, actors relied on makeup to make them look old or young, or with plumper lips, or like an alien. Turns out, your face—you—is comprised of the interplay of shadows and light, and that you can mimic that shit with dark or light face colors.
Okay, basically like any eye color that’s NOT baby-diarrhea brown. Fight me.
What does that mean in the context of this blog post?!
I can MAKE upturned eyes. With makeup.
This is fucking magical, I promise.
So.
Deep-set eyes means I’ve got a rather prominent orbital bone getting in the way of a clean cat eye. The bone protruding from my head makes it hard to get a straight line from my lash line to my brown bone; such that if I draw a straight line, it ends up looking like a check mark because it has to traverse that goddamn orbital bone in order to make it to my eyebrow. So how do you fix that?
You cheat.
You need to play with the planes of your face—the areas the light hits, and the areas the light doesn’t hit—to achieve the look of eyes that don’t look as if someone had smashed two tennis balls in the sand. To do that, you need to look straight ahead.
Think about it.
Look: you can even do it with cosplay. This one didn’t require the “cat ear” technique because the elongation was minimal. Just extended the lash line, but was careful not to touch the crease with the shadow. BUT DO YOU SEE THE INNER CORNER WING?!?
You’re not going to walk around Publix looking up the entire time (…I mean…unless you want weird looks and people getting out of your way while reaching for your next bottle of cheap wine). You’re looking forward. So if there is a marked crease between your lash line and your orbital bone, you’re going to need to draw a line from the corner of your lash line straight over your orbital bone to get that sleek cat-eye look.
You’ll end up with this weird wedge-looking wing while looking down…but as you probably won’t be walking around the grocery store looking up, you likely will not be walking around the grocery store looking down, either. Unless you’re a psycho.
If you’re trying to make a more natural transition (i.e., NOT some rockabilly wing), you smoke that shit out and use a brown crayon liner. Smash it on the very corner of your lash; look straight at the mirror and bring that crayon up to your orbital bone. Don’t worry about the skin that you miss in between because now you’re going to look down and connect the crayon on your eye bone to the crayon on your lash line. Bring a bit of the crayon further on your lash line, too. I usually stop in the middle of the lid and just smoke the crayon the rest of the way to the inner corner.
Now. Here’s the other important part: draw a line from the tip of the first line you drew toward your brow bone toward and into your outer crease, creating a triangle.
I know you look like a drunk 60s model now, but trust the process. You’re going to blend it all out.
Using a small blending brush, pull that crayon up and out toward your brow bone. I always use a pulling out motion (pun 100% intended) so I don’t lose my tapered end. Now—for those who, like me, have a prominent brow bone—you’re going to need to blend that dark color up and over your bone. That will help create the effect of a shadow where there isn’t one which in turn will help create the illusion of a more cat-like eye.
The entire concept here is using dark and light colors to create shadows and plains on your face. If you’ve ever taken a drawing class, think of it as shading in a figure to create shapes—only you’re doing it on your face.
Now, here’s what I found REALLY makes that cat-eye effect: you place some of the crayon in the water line of your upper and lower inner corner, then use a really smol brush to pull it out a tad. It’s amazing how such a tiny tiny detail can make such a big difference. To finish it off, I smoke the lower outer lash line (I do not bring it all the way to the inner corner, because the whole point is to elongate your eye—not close it up and shorten it). You can set the crayon with a dark shadow and use a neutral to blend out the edges if desired. Finally, I only highlight the top of the inner lid. I don’t touch the brow bone with any kind of reflective anything. I just spent all that time trying to make it recede more—like an old man’s hairline—I DO NOT want to do anything to it to bring it back to the forefront, like making it shiny.
The rest is up to you. I usually do a natural brow, mascara and minimal coverage. Really, I just use the NARS Creamy Radiant concealer under the eyes, and wherever else I need a concealer (not to be confused with a highlighter. So I don’t put it on my cupid’s bow or nose). NARS’ concealer is particularly excellent for natural looks like this. If your skin is properly hydrated, it literally melts into your face and stays put the entire day. I only ever use setting powder under the eyes, and only a fairy-dusting’s worth.
Also, if reading this tutorial was as hard for you as it was for me to write it (heckin’ tedious), check out Hindash. He has mastered the cat-eye on all different shapes of eyes and has really user-friendly tutorials. He’s how I learned to do what I just wrote about.
Final note: this technique can be both for minimalist AND glam looks. The point is creating a shadow on your orbital bone to make it less prominent. And if you do go for full glam, you can amp that cat look up by adding a contour that follows the line of the cat-eye, then highlighting right above it.
Motion to Slay 