You were never really happy with your body.

It never looked the way you wanted it to look. The stomach bulges too much. Stretch marks crawl up your sides; dark, gray-pink lines that you noticed never since you started putting on a little more weight than usual. Your legs are too hairy, calves chunky. Hyperpigmented spots and acne scars litter the lower half of your cheeks. The eyebrows need some maintenance, one more arched than the other. You’re all squish, little height, not much to look at. There was always something to criticize and never really anything to compliment.

All you ever wanted was to have some kind of control over your body. Gaining it was impossible when everything seemed to spill over. You attempt to find ways, try to find solutions, and try to sate your hunger for perfection—but nothing really works out. So you find yourself comforted with less and settle for less. It’s all you’ve ever known.

In your freshman year, you stole your mom’s lipstick. There was a presentation the following morning and you wanted to look impressive while debating your case in front of friends, blockmates, and a boy you’ve had your eye on since OrSem. It earned you compliments. Classmates pointed out how nice the color looked on your lips, while your professor quirked her brow and approached you before the bell rang. She looked at you–you in your white button-down, black slacks, and a blazer too big for your frame—before suggesting that perhaps a more vivid red would suit you more.

You purchased your first lipstick online that summer. The choices overwhelmed you: There were different finishes, types, and colors of lipstick, ranging from liquid to bullet to matte to cream, going from the lightest of nudes to the deepest of reds. Mint greens and purples were options for the braver at heart. It takes you an hour, and you eventually choose a vivid red or two and a color reminiscent of Christmas wine.

The package arrived at your doorstep a month later. While receiving mail was a usually exciting experience, the fact that it was makeup made it somewhat sweeter. There was something about opening up a package that seemed to hold the solution to most of your problems. There was something about opening up a package that promised you the control you always wanted.

The universe seemed to fall into place when you first put it on. Unlike the lipstick you stole, this one fits you perfectly. Your mom wished that you ordered something much more tame and much more nude, but you found yourself looking in the mirror and feeling a bit happier with the burst of color on your lips. Never mind the other imperfections. This was all that mattered.

You found yourself dabbling then diving into makeup as the days, weeks, and months pass. A humble collection grows into something bigger. You find that you have to keep track of all your makeup with a neatly-designed tracker on Google Sheets. The love for makeup takes a toll on your own personal savings, but the pay-off, you found, was worth it. The creams, powders, and different finishes of lipstick—matte, creme, satin, frost, gloss, sheer—finally made you feel some kind of beautiful.

It makes your face look better. You’re more enhanced, more put-together, more mature, more in control. Red lips and sharp, winged black eyeliner become a staple. You could control this. You could start here and continue with the rest.

You’re still unhappy with your body. There’s much to do, much to work on, much to improve. It’s overwhelming. You find yourself staring at friends, at acquaintances, at strangers, and wish that you could have their body for even just a day or two. Maybe then you’d know how it feels to be genuinely happy with your body.

But you catch a glimpse of yourself at the end of the day, faded lipstick and all, and try to make peace with the fact that this is the only thing you can control.