Foundation Matching Anonymous

Who was this strange woman and why did she know my name?

The muscles in my body turned rigid as she stooped low to embrace me. A familiar scent flooded my nostrils. "Mum?" I pulled away and, awe-stricken, scrutinized the face of the stranger for other proofs of her identity. It was the first time I had seen my mother wear a "full face" of makeup. I was averse to the seemingly deceptive, transformative qualities of makeup, but, as I grew older, I could not help admiring the dewy, poreless faces of the women I saw on television. My own face was a patchwork of visible pores, acne scars, and discoloured skin. I lamented my ugliness; my perceived inferiority; to my mother, but she did not allow me own any cosmetics until I turned seventeen.

On a characteristically warm autumn day in Tallahassee, Florida, I made my way to the cosmetics aisle in my local Walmart. I was confronted by rows of bottled chocolate. This was foundation: the assurance of (the illusion of) flawless skin. For over an hour, I stood swiping a small amount of each product across my wrist to find the perfect match for my skin colour. This one was too red: it hid the yellow undertones which were a proud marker of my membership of the Ibo tribe. That one had too much...