I was fourteen when I first held a kajal pencil.

Not because anyone gave it to me. I just saved my pocket money, walked to the local shop, and bought my first piece of makeup. I still remember the feeling—like I’d found something that was just mine.

Those old Bollywood films played on repeat in my house. Rekha’s eyes. Sridevi’s glow. Madhuri’s smile. I’d pause the TV, stare at freeze frames, and try to understand how a little black pencil could hold so much power. How light and shadow worked on different faces. Why some looks felt timeless and others just faded.

So I practiced.

On myself first—disaster, obviously. My first few attempts were so bad I’d wash my face and pretend it never happened. But I kept at it. Then on friends before college fests. On neighbors before family weddings. On anyone who’d sit still long enough and let me experiment.

No YouTube back then. No Instagram reels. Just trial, error, patience, and a whole lot of determination.

Everyone called it a hobby. “Shauk hai isko,” they’d say.

But by the time I finished college, that hobby had 200 practice faces behind it. Strangers started asking who did my makeup. Friends began booking me weeks in advance for their events. I knew then—this wasn’t a phase. This was it.

So I took the leap. Enrolled at Lakmé Academy and got formally trained.

Those months changed everything. I learned the science behind the art—skin types, undertones, color theory, sanitation protocols. Techniques I’d never discovered on my own. Suddenly I wasn’t just “the girl who’s good at makeup.” I was a professional with certification and standards.

What followed were years I wouldn’t trade for anything.

I assisted some of the best names in the industry. Worked backstage at fashion weeks. Did makeup for print shoots, advertising campaigns, music videos. Watched senior artists handle impossible clients, impossible heat, impossible deadlines. Learned how to stay calm when everything around me was chaos. Learned that the best makeup artists aren’t just skilled—they’re therapists, crisis managers, and sometimes, the only calm person in the room.

Then came the salon years.

First in Delhi—right in the middle of everything. That salon taught me speed. Taught me how to work with every kind of face, every kind of skin, every kind of budget. Brides with their detailed Pinterest boards. Working professionals needing quick touch-ups between meetings. Older women who hadn’t worn makeup in decades and wanted to feel beautiful again. College girls trying things for the first time. I served them all.

Then life took me to Haridwar. Opened another salon there. Completely different world.

Different clients, different needs, different pace. Learned to work with destination brides coming from all over India. Learned how makeup behaves in humidity, in heat, in the unpredictable mountain weather. Made mistakes. Fixed them. Got better. Built a team. Trained them. Watched them grow.

After years of running both spaces, I realized what I truly loved wasn’t managing a business—it was the face in front of me. The one-on-one moment. The trust when someone closes their eyes and lets you work.

So I closed the salons. Went freelance. Went back to why I started.

Today, my kit carries everything those years taught me. The hunger of that fourteen-year-old with her first kajal pencil. The technique from Lakmé Academy. The polish from working with industry greats. The speed from Delhi. The adaptability from Haridwar. And the patience—god, the patience—from hundreds of brides and their families.

I’ve done makeup in five-star suites and in cramped wedding tents. At 5 AM and at midnight. For brides, grooms, models, corporate professionals, and little girls going to their first family function. In air-conditioned studios and in outdoor venues with no fans. With international luxury products and with local brands that work better on Indian skin.

Every single time, the feeling is the same.

That moment when they look in the mirror and their face lights up—that’s why I still do this. That’s why I’ll always do this.

Come sit in my chair. Let me show you what all those years have taught me.