How rejecting the slow burn of the seven-step beauty ritual helped me rediscovered myself

The beginning of the COVID-19 lockdown was the time of aggressive Chloe Ting workouts, intermittent diets, and the much-awaited ‘glow ups’. I, on the other hand, was one of the few who went in the opposite direction. Finally liberated from the drudgery of waking up every day to go somewhere, I let go—and how. Entrapped at home in New Delhi for almost two years, binge-eating and binge-watching, my body became unrecognisable to me. To put this into perspective, even before the lockdown, I was never one of the ‘skinny’ ones. For context, the internet says I have a pineapple-shaped figure. Add 20 kgs to that and you have an identity crisis.

Then came the unsolicited comments from neighbours, friends, and family. Awaiting the day I’d get back to looking like my old, ‘normal’ self, I coerced myself to stay inside as much as possible. I refused to meet anyone. And college being online obviously helped matters. Despite everything, I couldn’t get my body to workout, and as I kept gaining weight, the shame just kept compounding.

The mirror was my greatest enemy. I remember trying on an old pair of jeans from before the lockdown days and just bawling in my room, looking at my own reflection as the button didn’t button up. My muffin top was not just a top anymore, it was spilling out of my jeans. The debilitating self-worth was real. And the solution? Find ways to cope and compensate. Growing up, the way to do this was to be a high achieving, A-grade teacher’s pet and/or an obedient, sycophantic elder daughter. But school got over long ago; that wasn’t an option anymore. It is then that I ‘discovered’ the lipstick. Very much like the moment when a baby realises it has hands, I realised I had a colour-infused, cylindrical bullet—the cure to my maladies. It didn’t matter if I was a size L, XL or (gasps!) XXL. Any shade, any brand, it was all mine. The mental Olympics of the trial rooms was over. The lipstick became my saviour.

What happened after is something that piques my curiosity till date. Embarrassed and mortified by the sheer size of my ‘new’ body, I embarked on a rabid, adrenaline-fuelled hunt: To try out every lipstick from every brand I could possibly get my hands on. I’d just quietly keep roaming around the aisles at beauty stores, despite concerned looks from salespeople. On a trip to Dubai, I spent five hours at the airport kiosks trying out lipsticks from every luxury brand they had in stock. Gucci, Prada, Valentino, Hermès, Chanel, YSL, Armani, Lancôme, Givenchy, Dior—you name the brand and I can guarantee you it’s been on my lips. And mind you, I didn’t have the means to purchase any of them. I barraged the very disinterested retail staff with countless questions: Which are the nude shades, who bought them the most, what works with which skin tone, and so on. The lipstick never discriminated. At the beauty counter, the shame of not fitting into a wrap-around dress simply vanished. Liberation had never felt so good.

But why just the lipstick? Why not an eyeshadow, a contour, or a foundation? Because everything else had a “technique”. The self-appointed beauty gurus on YouTube had turned it into a science and a skill. IYKYK. And if you don’t, well then, behold the beauty faux pas. The technicalities were too huge and too minute at the same time. The primer, the serum, the spray, the strobe: Which comes first and which comes last? Four different products for one cheek—a contour, a bronzer, a highlighter, a blush. Who’s the top and who’s the bottom? And the worst of all? The dreaded eyes. The scotch tapes on the temples, the cryptic smokey eye tutorials, and the consistent danger of it all melting down onto the face. In a sea of unintelligible beauty products was the lipstick. No LinkedIn-esque ‘upskilling’ needed, just show up, pout, and pucker.

And thus, let alone the technique, even after fancying myself a ‘fashion journalist’, I still don’t know the basics of how to work an eyeliner. And when my very adept roommate does do it for me, tears will stream down my face no matter what. While I plead and beg her to be gentle on the few occasions I put myself through the ritual, she is someone who sleeps with liner on. I actually don’t believe I’ve ever seen her naked face.

The truth is, my lack of knowledge is not because of a lack of effort. Even after watching countless hours of skincare content on YouTube Shorts, when I hear the words ‘salicylic acid’, my mind draws a blank. And honestly, I probably won’t know even after this essay gets published. While earlier, marketers used to advertise the oils and fragrances of fruits and spices in beauty products, a good chunk of the new beauty has pivoted to ‘clinical’ chemicals. Bottles with minimalistic designs and a host of ‘dermat-approved’ ingredients line shelves, as if I’m supposed to know which formula works and which doesn’t. And if not, I’m supposed to trust the college student moonlighting as a sponsored beauty influencer.

But despite it all, somehow, I now make it work—a little late, but at my own pace. I’ve discovered skincare, I’ve discovered makeup. Never as good as the internet’s resident MUAs would like, but just enough. My everyday skincare routine now includes a Cetaphil moisturiser paired with a lightweight, hydrating aloe vera gel and a cleansing spray, both by Forest Essentials (courtesy their very patient, very educated staff). And as far as makeup goes, the ritual basically begins and ends with a creme blush by Kay Beauty and a LoveChild by Masaba lipstick. I refuse to touch my eyes or even do a base. If the effort or technique isn’t enough discouragement, Delhi’s heat is.

And thus, even as the beauty business booms today, once in a while, I still feel like the socially anxious teenager I was—the one with a receding hairline, a scalp that had more dandruff than hair, tied together with a greasy, oily braid. Picture that with an overweight figure and a pair of classic geek glasses. That’s how you get pseudonymised as a ‘nerd’ and bullied by the boys, with the addition of an occasional mean girl.

As I had become averse to the idea of being photographed, I filled my wardrobe with loose-fitting checkered shirts—resembling elderly men’s office-going attire—paired with ‘jeggings’ and ballet flats. I hid, concealed, and covered every inch of my skin behind the clothes I wore. My only saving grace both then and now? The lipstick on my face. In a time when the body is consistently being asked to perform, I’ve finally learned to be myself, with a slightly crooked eyeliner, a roughly blended blush, but of course, the perfect lipstick.

All images: Getty Images 

This article first appeared in Cosmopolitan India's July-August 2025 print edition. 

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