Even on days when I’m not adjusting to a new country, there’s something comforting about doing my own makeup. It’s familiar. Requires just enough focus to keep me preoccupied without turning my mind all the way on. There’s a rhythm to it too: the tap of the brush, the slow squeeze of the eyelash curler, a quick swipe of glitter here and there. And it’s effective. I’ve devoted what must be hundreds of hours to figuring out the best shade of eye shadow for my skin, the most effective contouring techniques for my jaw and nose, little magic tricks for me to hide my many shortcomings and highlight my nicer features.

I’m dabbing blush onto my cheeks when I catch Daisy staring in the mirror. Her entire shower took less time than my skin prep routine, and she’s already changed into a faded pink cotton shirt and sweatpants, her hair tied into a loose braid that trails over her shoulder.

“Do you always do this before you go out?” she asks me. “Like, the whole—” She gestures to her own bare face.

“Pretty much, yeah,” I say with a faint stab of self-consciousness. She probably thinks I’m super vain, or that I’m one of those girls who can’t leave the house makeup-free—which is exactly what I am. I don’t think anyone at my current school has ever seen my face without some kind of product plastered on it. Even on the plane ride here, I had my perfectly glued lashes and trusted black eyeliner for support.

“But … doesn’t it take a long time?” Daisy asks in a tone of wonder, watching as I apply my favorite cherry-colored tint next. I smudge the line on my upper lip to make it look fuller, before layering a darker red shade onto the bottom, all of it done with a surgeon’s precision.

“About an hour,” I confirm, reaching for my lip gloss for the final touch. The sweet, artificial smell of strawberries drifts up to my nose as I swipe it on. “Sometimes two, if I want to also style my hair and look extra good.”

“Two hours?” Daisy repeats, looking aghast. “What if you have school?”

“I just wake up earlier,” I say, unsure if this conversation is headed toward some kind of damning judgment about how I choose to distribute my time. “Usually around five in the morning.”

“Wow,” Daisy says, though she doesn’t sound critical. More bewildered by my dedication and unsure about the necessity of going through such motions, the same way someone might react if you told them your morning ritual involves hiking up a mountain at dawn every day to pluck fresh berries. “And you don’t get exhausted?”