The bristles tickle, dusting my cheekbones with blush. I take a deep breath to keep a straight face, inhaling warm vanilla and shower steam. “Stop breathing on me, you weirdo,” my sister says. My eyes are closed. The makeup brush swooshes against my skin, its texture like peach fuzz. I feel pampered, though my 14-year-old, self-taught beauty guru has just 15 minutes to fix me so we can get downstairs for our cousin’s wedding. Our grandmother will be here soon to make sure I’m up to feminine standards.
When I hold a makeup brush, it feels like trying to write with my off hand. This one is the size of a thick pencil, with a soft dome of hazel-brown bristles and a pink plastic handle that narrows in the middle, forming a natural spot for the thumb and index finger to rest. Using it is supposed to be intuitive, like painting on a canvas. But I’ve never been a girly girl, despite my very traditional grandmother’s cajoling. I was lucky if I remembered to wash my face, and more likely to show up looking organic, flaunting puberty zits and bushy eyebrows. Until recently.
Something happened when I took my sister to her happiest place on Earth, a glitzy cosmetics chain called Sephora. From the moment she entered my life — when I was eight years old, digging in the dirt for roly-polies — she was unabashedly feminine. Even as a toddler, she would dig through my mom’s vanity drawers to get dolled up for bedtime. So I asked her to help me pick out my first makeup brush, braving a store that reeked of perfume and expectations. I bought her a tube of lip gloss, but she was clearly the big sister that day.
Owning a brush doesn’t make you an artist, but this one moves naturally at my sister’s command, like a poet’s pen or a dancer’s feet. Humans have been doing this since ancient Egypt and Han Dynasty China, though we’ve moved on from bamboo handles and sable hair. Brushes now come in at least 16 shapes and sizes: wide and flat to lay on the base; fine-tipped to contour lips; angled to fill in eyebrows. It’s overwhelming. “I love your eyes, so I’m not doing much,” my sister says.
She tells me to look and I peek reluctantly. The mirror can become more daunting than a simple reflection for young women, but I’m not rebelling against its judgments or demands anymore. Rather, I’m relieved to see that I’m still me — just amplified, with flushed cheeks, sharpened brows, shimmery eyelids and pink lips. We zip each other up and dance like we’ve got all day, until a knock comes on the door. My grandmother looks regal in her navy gown. She feigns a gasp at my getup, as if I was some long-lost loved one she didn’t just have breakfast with this morning. I catch my sister stifling a giggle. We share a knowing look.
This story appears in the November 2025 issue of Deseret Magazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.