I have no idea when I started wearing makeup; it was probably early in my childhood. Our mother took my sister and me to the mall regularly—we held the bags, and she held the wallet. We joked that she had children just to carry the shopping bags. No matter the reason for our mall adventures, we always visited the Estée Lauder counter at Marshall Field’s, where Mom would purchase the cleansers, toners, and creams that made up her skincare routine. It was serious business to her long before eleven-step routines reached the Western world.

By high school, I was traveling down the cosmetic road on my own. It started with my fingernails. I cared for them with as much diligence as Mom applied to her skincare. I had an electric manicure machine that efficiently spun away excess cuticle and power-filed my nails into perfect ovals.

Fancy nail polish was far more affordable than Advanced Night Repair. Particularly memorable colors were the same candy pearl brown you can find on a 2012 Lexus LFA and Cherries In The Snow, a luscious blue-red introduced in 1932 by the nascent Revlon. You can still buy it today. You should. No, really, it’s still luscious. And consider buying me that Lexus.

I had a skincare routine, but it wasn’t long before I discovered that skincare is boring. While skincare is the long game, makeup is instant gratification in a bottle, tube, pencil, or little metal pan. Venturing a few steps from Estée’s lotions and potions, I found Lancôme. But just a few steps farther, I found my ride-or-die—Prescriptives.

A sister brand of Estée’s, Prescriptives pulled me in with custom color matching. I was typed as Blue-Red, and damned if every color in that range didn’t look great on me.

It was makeup heaven, until it wasn’t. My mother got her revenge; Estée Lauder discontinued Prescriptives. I bounced from brand to brand; I even tried Estée Lauder. NARS sufficed, but I pined for the good old days of Prescriptives perfection until I found it online. My happiness was short-lived when the remaining stock ran out. Back to NARS for base, Huda Beauty for eyeshadow, and a myriad of L’Oréal products for the rest.

Not terribly long ago—which means anywhere from 10 to 15 years in my time-blind world—my eyes began burning and tearing whenever I wore makeup. I stopped lining my eyes; it didn’t help. I changed mascara; it didn’t help. I switched concealer. My eyes still stung.

Assuming that if something is bothering me, it must be bothering someone else, I researched “makeup makes my eyes burn” at the University of Google. Professor Google revealed sunscreen was the likely culprit. At the time, I didn’t use sunscreen, but there is sunscreen in virtually every foundation available, added to protect skin from wrinkles caused by sun exposure. I kept foundation far from my ocular membranes and marched bravely on in my cosmetic battle armor.

Until 2020.

I had gone years without a skin check, then I got the itch to get myself to a dermatologist. He discovered skin cancer—a melanoma in situ and two basal cell spots on my face. As skin cancer goes, basal cell is no big deal. Melanoma isn’t.

As small as my melanoma was, it got me into surgery despite Covid shutdowns. The tumor was removed within two weeks of its discovery; four days later, more was removed. Naturally, I wore no makeup while the incision healed.

The scar is barely visible, even at two inches long, but I haven’t gone back to makeup. Working remotely, it seemed ridiculous to put on makeup for meetings only to take it off as soon as I was off-screen. Hell, none of the men were camouflaging their facial flaws. Each one practically flaunted his dark circles, eye bags, forehead creases, and turkey neck.

I never wear makeup anymore. But I do have a skincare routine complete with appropriate cleansers, serums, retinoids, and a final slathering of Korean sunscreen*—SPF 50++++. My mother would be proud.

*Asian countries use a wider variety of chemical sunscreens than the United States. None have irritated my eyes.