Hair done. Smirk on
Playlist in both ears. By the door I am Els. The flat sees the other one applying the whole bloody face.
That is the split. It happens in the hallway, usually with one trainer still half on and someone asking if I have seen their charger. I say I am fine. I say I will not be late. I say I am only popping out. All of that is a performance too. The first one just happens before I have even left the building.
People talk about getting ready like it is a montage. Music up, lipstick on, twirl, gone. Cute. In this flat it is a fight for the mirror, a row about whose perfume is whose, and me standing there telling myself I look sorted until I almost believe it.
The bathroom version of me is the honest one
She is not impressive. She has a warehouse rota in her head and a bit of toast still on her plate. She talks to herself while she does her eyeliner because if she does not talk, the quiet gets in. I have never liked quiet. Quiet makes my brain start filing old things I do not have time for on a Saturday.
I do the face anyway. Always. Even when I swear I am going for a pint and coming straight back. Foundation, brows, a mouth that looks like I have somewhere better to be. I catch myself in the mirror more than is normal. I know that. My flatmates know that. They have stopped commenting. They just hover behind me going, you nearly done, because they would like to wee at some point this decade.
The thing is, the face is not for them. It is not even really for whoever I might end up talking to. It is for the walk from the bathroom to the front door. That stretch of hallway is where I decide which girl is going out.
Els starts at the latch
Keys. Phone. Card. Lip product in the bag even though I have already put it on twice. Playlist in, volume up, that first song that makes my shoulders drop. I do not leave the house in silence. Silence on a London pavement at night feels like an invitation for my own thoughts to start chatting, and they are not always good company.
By the time the latch clicks I have the smirk on. Not a big grin. That looks try-hard. Just enough that if someone clocks me on the stairs they get the edited version. Fun. Fine. Up for it. Not the woman who was counting her overdraft in her notes app twenty minutes ago.
I used to think that made me fake. Now I think it makes me practical. You cannot take the whole of yourself to a crowded bar. You would never get through the door. You take the useful bits. The laugh. The posture. The line that makes it look like nothing gets to you.
The rest stays in the flat with the wet towels and the cereal boxes.
Getting ready is not vanity. It is a switch.
People love calling it high maintenance. Let them. I work on my feet. I share a bathroom with two other adults. I live in a city that will look at you under tube lighting and still expect you to have a personality. If I want an extra ten minutes with a mascara wand, I am taking them.
There is a point, mid-routine, where I stop looking tired and start looking like I chose this. That is the bit I am after. Not perfect. Chosen. Like I meant to come out, not like I escaped the week and hoped for the best.
I have gone out with a half-done face before. It felt like leaving the house in a vest in January. Possible. Miserable. I spent the whole night clocking myself in phone screens. That is not mysterious. That is just me, unarmed.
So yes. I perform a little. I put the armour on where I can see it. Hair. Mouth. That walk. If you think that is shallow, you have never needed a version of yourself that can get on a night bus without folding.
The playlist is doing half the work
I am not precious about it. It is not a curated identity project. It is whatever makes my chest feel less tight. Something with a bit of bass. Something I can mouth the words to while I wait for the lift that still smells of last night’s takeaway.
Headphones in means I do not have to make hallway small talk at full volume. Headphones in means I can walk down the road like I am already in the night. That sounds daft when I write it. It still works.
I have left the house in a mood and arrived at the pub a different person because three songs happened in between. That is not magic. That is just noise doing what quiet will not.
The flat sees the bit I do not post
They see me swearing at a mascara wand. They see me trying the same top twice and calling it ugly, then wearing it anyway. They see the pause before I open the door, the one where I check my teeth and my face and whatever is going on behind my eyes.
That pause is the whole article, if I am honest.
Because I can do cocky. I can do flirty. I can walk into a room like I am not calculating the cab home. I have been doing that long enough that people think it is my resting state. It is not. It is a decision I make with a lip product in my hand.
I do not need a speech about inner beauty. Inner beauty does not get you past the bouncer or through a warehouse Monday. Looking like I meant to be here does. Feeling like I meant to be here helps even more.
If that is a performance, fine. Most of London is a performance. At least mine comes with decent eyeliner.
What I am actually doing
I am not becoming someone else. I am turning the volume up on the parts that get me through a night. The smug bit. The fun bit. The girl who can take a joke and give one back. The girl who looks like she will be all right if nobody texts after.
The other girl, the one in the bathroom, wants a promotion and a bit more money and sometimes a person who stays. She does not need to announce that at the door. She can come. She just does not get to drive.
I used to leave the house hoping someone would pick which version they wanted. Now I pick first. It is less romantic. It is a lot cleaner.
And if I come home with the face half down and the playlist still going in one ear, that is fine too. The performance has a time limit. The latch works both ways. I can be Els until the shoes come off. After that I am just me again, standing in a kitchen that still has someone else’s mug in the sink, wiping off the mouth I put on to get me out the door.
That is the deal. I leave the house already slightly performing. I come home and put her down on the side with the keys. Tomorrow I will do it again. Hair. Smirk. Song. Door.
