She prepares herself, splashing cold water over the soapy lather on her face, and I watch her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes are closed as the bubbles in the foam burst and the creamy grey-white layer dilutes and slides off, dribbling at her jawline for a few seconds before tiny streams fall over the edge into the wash basin below. She squeezes her eyelids each time the water strikes her skin and her eyebrows furrow just the tiniest distance, before fluttering open in rapid blinks, testing for any residue on her face. She doesn’t want her eyes to burn and as she adjusts to her face in the mirror, her gaze runs over her skin – assessing – making sure she got it all. A few seconds pass before she meets her own eyes and then mine. She offers me a small smile before returning to her reflection and patting down the remnants of moisture into her skin, ever so patiently. She has always refused to use a towel on her face. Something about dry skin. 

The bathroom counter is a mess but she knows it like the back of her hand, barely looking as she picks up a long white tube with green and blue markings on it. Unscrewing the top, she squeezes a pale-yellow lotion onto her hand, never in her palm, only along the lengths of her fingers. The palm is like a greedy sponge. It generously absorbs moisture, too much of it. With the lightest of strokes, she massages the lotion onto her face. If I couldn’t see the buttery liquid disappearing with each movement, I wouldn’t be sure that she was touching her face at all. Her fingertips move in circular motions, faintly tapping around her eyes. She smiles at herself, satisfied with the dewy glow on her caramel skin.

‘I need this to absorb before I put anything else on it,’ she says ‘wine? I have straws lying around somewhere, so our teeth don’t stain’. I can’t help but shake my head. She thinks of everything. She’s going to look beautiful and we are going to be late. 

Two glasses of wine and one Kendrick Lamar song later, she’s back at the mirror. I watch her transform, as I have a hundred times before, each freckle, scar and line vanishing under honey-brown liquid, that she blends with a bright blue sponge. She rummages around the counter looking for a warmer color when she’s done. A slight frown develops on her forehead as she tries to choose between three nominees. It’s gone just as quickly as she grabs the middle one. The tiny disc of powder in her hand is two shades darker than she is; Kat Von D calls it Subconscious. Gently brushing it into the hollows of her cheeks, on the side of her nose, and on her temples, she sculpts her face. Her cheekbones look higher soon, her nose more pointed. Tiny specks of powder dust have settled on the mirror and she stops to reach out for a tissue, wiping them away the same way she does the imperfections that only she notices. 

Caressed with gold her eyelids shimmer, and I concentrate on the way her eyeliner thickens, the thin brush running itself over repeatedly along the periphery, before she’s satisfied with the result and moves onto the other eye. She flinches as a stray bristle, pricks her and hurriedly lifts her head to stare at the ceiling, fighting off any tears that dare remix her composition. It is a full minute until the glassy film over her eyes dissipates and it takes another two for her features to relax – affirmation that no harm was done. I can hear her grumble as she looks at the time, and then dismisses her tardiness in the name of perfection, brushing on a lustrous powder on the realms of her face that are naturally hit by light. 

Her lips are colorful all the time, but today they are a hue similar to three day old roses, dark enough for the fall season but light enough that she seems young and approachable. She starts lining her Cupid’s bow with a pencil and then abruptly stops.

‘We should have a cigarette, I don’t want this to smudge before we get there,’ she says looking at me eagerly. She leaves a smudged imprint on the cigarette bud. 

She swipes on her mascara, and the black putty darkens her eyelashes casting a shadow on her brown irises. She’s ready now and as she stares at herself I see a fleeting flicker of hesitance in her eyes. She’s wondering if she has overdone it slightly, she hasn’t, but she thinks it outloud as she has a hundred times before. 

‘You look beautiful,’ I say, a dutiful best friend. That’s all she needs, at least for now, rushing off to grab anything else she might need tonight. 

She catches a quick glimpse of herself, at the mirror near the door and I can’t help but muse on what she perceives, if she sees what I see.

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