(Cleopatra Didn’t Have a Clean Vanity Either)
There’s a misconception about makeup — that the women who own the most of it must be wearing it all the time.
They aren’t.
Some of the women I know with the largest collections — my mom, my relatives, friends — walk around most days with bare faces. Maybe lip gloss at most. Sometimes not even that. You open their drawers and it looks like Sephora exploded, but day-to-day, they look effortless, almost untouched.
I used to think that meant makeup was reserved for occasions. Weddings. Parties. Moments when you were supposed to become a more polished version of yourself.
But somewhere along the way, I started questioning that.
Why not every day?
And why does “every day” automatically mean excessive?
I’m a certified makeup artist, but the biggest thing I learned didn’t come from training — it came from exhaustion.
At some point I realized I didn’t want to spend an hour doing makeup just to wash it off later. I wanted something closer to brushing my teeth: automatic, grounding, high impact without high effort.
The same principle people use when cleaning during depression — focus on the 20% that changes 80% of how a space feels.
Vacuum the floor. Open the window. Clear one surface.
Instant relief.
So I applied that logic to my face.
I gave myself a rule: no more than nine products.
Nine has always represented completion to me. Enough, but not excess. A full circle.
I rebuilt my vanity around that idea.
Not aesthetic. Not curated. Just intentional.
My vanity isn’t Instagram-ready.
It’s lived in.
A lash curler sits beside hand sanitizer. Lip liner rolls next to skincare and stuffed animals. Lotion, fragrance, wipes, tweezers, deodorant — everything within reach because real life happens here.
It’s less a beauty station and more a command center.
People assume vanity means decoration.
But vanity, at least for me, means maintenance.
My routine takes less than fifteen minutes.
A cheap BB cream blended with my fingers — no brushes, no ceremony. I leave it slightly longer under my eyes and around my mouth so it thickens naturally before tapping it in. Skin looks even, alive, human.
Lip liner dipped into lip balm creates a soft blushed lip that hydrates at the same time. Sometimes whatever is left on my finger becomes blush — apples of the cheeks, maybe the bridge of the nose if I want that cold-weather softness.
No heavy contouring. No visible layers.
I grew up in the millennial era of powder contour — subtle shadows meant to be invisible, something only you noticed. Now makeup trends feel louder. You can see the blush, the contour, the bronzer from across the room.
But makeup, to me, was never meant to be seen as product.
It was meant to create an effect.
Good skin prep replaces highlighter. Hydration replaces glow products. Confidence replaces half the techniques we once thought we needed.
And honestly, adulthood helps too. Baby fat softens, features settle, and you stop trying to sculpt a different face.
You start working with the one you have.
Eyes are my favorite ritual.
I line the waterline, press my eyes together slightly, letting the pigment transfer naturally — an old trick that creates softness without precision. Sometimes I smudge it outward with my finger into a smoky wing.
No brushes.
Just instinct.
Ancient cultures lined their eyes long before modern beauty trends existed. Protection from sun glare, spiritual symbolism, identity. I like that connection — makeup not as modern vanity, but as something ancient and human.
Cleopatra probably didn’t sit there worrying about blendability.
She prepared herself for the world.
The routine matters as much as the result.
Music videos play while I get ready — women moving with confidence. It turns preparation into enjoyment instead of obligation.
Everything sits in front of me: wipes for long days when washing feels impossible, lotion because I refuse to go to bed dry-skinned, fragrance, deodorant, foot cream, lip balm.
Hygiene is non-negotiable, even if the space itself looks imperfect.
Clean doesn’t always mean minimal.
Sometimes clean just means cared for.
When younger cousins walk into my room, they stare at the vanity like it’s magical.
“This looks like a genie’s table,” one of them said once.
And I understood what they were seeing.
Not makeup.
Possibility.
A small private space where someone gets to decide how they enter the world.
My vanity isn’t where I become someone else.
It’s where I return to myself.
Every morning, before expectations, before work, before conversations and responsibilities, there’s this quiet ritual of adjustment — moisturizer, liner, lashes, scent.
Small acts that say: I’m here. I’m awake. I’m ready.
Cleopatra didn’t have a clean vanity either.
She had a working surface.
And sometimes, that’s all beauty really is.
Editor’s Note: Ritual is for everyday life. Celebration deserves its own rules.
Makeup is still supposed to be fun.
A daily routine exists for stability — not limitation. There are ordinary mornings, and then there are parties, milestone moments, weddings, birthdays, nights out, performances, and the rare occasions where life actually asks you to be a little extra.
Those are the moments to go all out.
Bring back the dramatic eyeshadow. Do the heavy contour. Wear stage makeup if you’re literally going to be on a stage. Pull out the glitter. Take your time. Spend forty-five minutes, even an hour, getting ready if that’s what brings you joy. Play your music. Pour a glass of wine if that’s your thing — and eat properly while you’re at it. Never drink on an empty stomach. Ignore diet culture when it tries to sneak into moments that are meant for celebration.
Vanity can be indulgent sometimes. It’s allowed.
Just remember that beauty also comes with responsibility. Makeup expires. Biology and science still apply no matter how expensive or sentimental a product is. Google is free — check dates, practice hygiene, and don’t hold onto products long past their time.
If something is nostalgic — an old palette you loved, a discontinued favorite — keep it as part of your history, not part of your routine. Some things deserve retirement, not disposal.
And most importantly: watch each other’s backs.
Party safely. Go home safely. Take care of yourself and your friends. Enjoy yourself — fully — without shame. No one gets to decide that you’re “doing too much.” Sometimes doing the most is simply refusing to shrink.
Your vanity is yours.
Indulge in it. Respect it. Have fun with it.