Because you don't need Make-Up to Cover-Up!
I saw her today; like I do every day.
To my utter surprise, she seemed content. She had an unusual glow on her face, a smile which had a romantic story hidden to its depth, and a glint in her eyes which spoke of both apprehension and passion.
These days, she keeps her blonde hair open, applies kohl in her eyes, wears her lipstick, and fancies looking at herself in the mirror at least seventeen times a day. She has started using the bentonite clay mask over her face, putting a layer each of foundation, primer, the BB Cream, and the bronzer before stepping out of the house and applying the rose water before going to bed. She has bought three slim-fit jeggings, got four of her tops tailored, so they accentuate her feminine form even more, and she has stolen my favourite perfume bottle from my cupboard.
The little bulge of her belly, the flabby thighs, upper-lip hair, and the acne marks on her forehead-she has grown conscious to all the traits that carry with them a formidable tag called 'flaws.'
Right now, I am sitting beside her while she has kept her head buried under the blanket. She is busy whispering sweet nothings on her phone and assuming that her muffled moans have magically become inaudible to my ears.
Adolescence. It's an incredible stage, isn't it?
I see she is in dire need of privacy. I see how she secretly enjoys every minute I spend outside the room.
The flicker of nervousness on her face when she suspected I had had a glance on her mobile screen while she was busy sexting the other day, I saw that too.
I wonder why she's keeping her little affair a secret. Maybe she fears me or keeps things hidden out of respect. If It's fear, I'm afraid, I've been a terrible elder sister to her, and if it's because of respect, I'm sure I do not need it.
I wonder if she knows I am not ashamed of her falling in love with a girl, wearing short dresses, or stealing my treasured lingeries and perfumes. I feel ashamed when I see her hiding the acne scars with her hair, taking pills to lose her excess fat, and putting layers of fairness products to match the so-called beauty standards.
I wish I could tell her all of this instead of typing it down here, but I don't want to interrupt when she is about to climax.
I'd rather wait, till the morning. I will urge her to take a close look at her reflection in the mirror, count to her all the spectacular features she's got, and tell how she doesn't need makeup to complete her for she is enough for herself.
To my utter surprise, she seemed content. She had an unusual glow on her face, a smile which had a romantic story hidden to its depth, and a glint in her eyes which spoke of both apprehension and passion.
These days, she keeps her blonde hair open, applies kohl in her eyes, wears her lipstick, and fancies looking at herself in the mirror at least seventeen times a day. She has started using the bentonite clay mask over her face, putting a layer each of foundation, primer, the BB Cream, and the bronzer before stepping out of the house and applying the rose water before going to bed. She has bought three slim-fit jeggings, got four of her tops tailored, so they accentuate her feminine form even more, and she has stolen my favourite perfume bottle from my cupboard.
The little bulge of her belly, the flabby thighs, upper-lip hair, and the acne marks on her forehead-she has grown conscious to all the traits that carry with them a formidable tag called 'flaws.'
Right now, I am sitting beside her while she has kept her head buried under the blanket. She is busy whispering sweet nothings on her phone and assuming that her muffled moans have magically become inaudible to my ears.
Adolescence. It's an incredible stage, isn't it?
I see she is in dire need of privacy. I see how she secretly enjoys every minute I spend outside the room.
The flicker of nervousness on her face when she suspected I had had a glance on her mobile screen while she was busy sexting the other day, I saw that too.
I wonder why she's keeping her little affair a secret. Maybe she fears me or keeps things hidden out of respect. If It's fear, I'm afraid, I've been a terrible elder sister to her, and if it's because of respect, I'm sure I do not need it.
I wonder if she knows I am not ashamed of her falling in love with a girl, wearing short dresses, or stealing my treasured lingeries and perfumes. I feel ashamed when I see her hiding the acne scars with her hair, taking pills to lose her excess fat, and putting layers of fairness products to match the so-called beauty standards.
I wish I could tell her all of this instead of typing it down here, but I don't want to interrupt when she is about to climax.
I'd rather wait, till the morning. I will urge her to take a close look at her reflection in the mirror, count to her all the spectacular features she's got, and tell how she doesn't need makeup to complete her for she is enough for herself.
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