The Last Tube of Concealer

NEWSFLASH. Naomi Campbell has been filmed attacking pigeons. The footage is being shown on every television channel simultaneously. I sit frozen on the sofa, mug of tea halfway to my mouth, convinced I’ve tuned in halfway through and missed a key piece of context. Surely there must be an explanation. A misunderstanding. A build-up. A sequence of events that explains why one of the world’s most famous supermodels is currently striding through central London as she declares war on the pigeon population. But no. There she is. Striding through the capital in enormous sunglasses and six-inch heels, a train of pure, unfiltered rage trailing behind her. Ahead of her, a flock of pigeons pecks harmlessly at crumbs spilling from a Greggs bag. Naomi approaches. Without hesitation — Kick. The pigeons explode into the air. Feathers everywhere. A cyclist swerves into a bollard. A tourist screams. One pigeon smashes through a Pret A Manger window. There is a brief, stunned silence. Then a faint, wounded “coo…” Naomi doesn’t even look back. She storms on, as though every supermodel eventually reaches the pigeon phase of her career. The news presenter clears his throat. “Ms Campbell appears to be struggling with this morning’s announcement.” I nearly inhale my tea. Struggling? The woman is conducting what appears to be a one-woman campaign against urban birdlife. The announcement arrives moments later. A government minister appears behind a podium. He has the sort of face that comes in various shades of grey. Grey suit. Grey tie. Grey expression. Even his eyebrows seem plucked clean of personality. He adjusts his glasses. Shuffles his notes. Then calmly informs the nation that beauty standards have been officially abolished. Not reduced. Not challenged. Not broadened. Abolished. As though beauty standards are something that can simply be concealed, painted over, and airbrushed away. According to the government, decades of impossible beauty standards have created a public health crisis. Young people are suffering. Self-esteem is collapsing. Body image is worsening. Anxiety is rising. Entire generations have grown up comparing themselves to filtered faces, edited photographs, celebrity culture and impossible ideals. And if I’m honest… part of me understands. Because I’ve spent enough evenings scrolling through social media feeling perfectly fine about myself right up until the precise moment I wasn’t. It’s amazing how quickly confidence can be swiped away. One minute you’re simply existing. The next you’re staring at somebody with a flawless complexion, perfect teeth and impossibly symmetrical features, suddenly feeling as though your own skin no longer fits quite right. Meanwhile, they’re probably staring at somebody else and thinking the exact same thing. Beauty standards are strange that way. Nobody forces them upon you. They simply sit there. Smiling. Glistening. Quietly convincing you that “good enough” is somehow no longer enough. The minister continues. “Beauty has become exclusionary.” Applause. “Toxic.” More applause. “Harmful.” Thunderous applause. The solution, apparently, is simple. Remove beauty altogether. Beauty influencers are banned. Fashion influencers are banned. Supermodels are banned. Actors, presenters and celebrities scoring above 6.5 on the government’s newly created Beauty Index are immediately removed from public-facing media. Their advertisements disappear overnight. Their contracts are terminated. Entire careers evaporate before lunchtime. The world’s most beautiful people have effectively become a controlled substance. Hence Naomi Campbell’s ongoing conflict with pigeons. At first, the whole thing feels ridiculous. Then the changes begin. Billboards featuring beautiful women are stripped from buildings. Teams dressed entirely in black arrive with ladders and industrial scrapers. Gigantic advertisements disappear from tube stations. Fashion campaigns vanish. Luxury brands vanish. Beauty products vanish. In their place comes practicality. Endless practicality. Orthopaedic footwear modelled by pensioners. Compression socks. functional clothing. One advertisement simply features a perfectly average middle-aged couple comparing energy tariffs. The slogan reads: YOUR JAWLINE WON’T LOWER YOUR MONTHLY DIRECT DEBIT. A week later I witness a woman physically wrestling a dress away from a government official inside a department store. The dress is floral. Blue. Entirely harmless. Unfortunately, it falls slightly above the newly introduced Below-The-Knee Requirement. The official grips one sleeve. The woman grips the other. Neither intends to surrender. “Madam,” says the official. “The garment is excessively revealing.” “It’s daisies.” “Daisies are rarely just daisies.” Stiletto heels are now classified as a public health hazard. Millions are confiscated. Several are displayed in museums. The rest are dumped in landfill. I hate to admit it, but I can see the logic. I’ve nearly broken my ankle more times than I care to remember wearing those ankle assassins. Still. Watching mountains of abandoned heels being bulldozed into the earth feels oddly emotional — like witnessing the burial of poor judgement itself. Then comes the announcement that finally pushes society over the edge. Make-up is obsolete. Not discouraged. Not regulated. Obsolete. The reaction is immediate. Global. Apocalyptic. People riot. Governments wobble. Relationships collapse. Entire family WhatsApp groups become war zones. And I can’t pretend I’m unaffected. Concealer was my life. My confidant. My emotional support cosmetic. A simple beige stick, yet capable of granting something increasingly rare in modern life: the ability to look in the mirror without immediately wanting to wrap a paper bag over my head. For years it had hidden the marks left behind by acne; tiny reminders of battles my skin fought long after the war was supposedly over. There were mornings I would lean closer, not looking at my whole face at once — absolutely not — just the parts I could bring myself to look at in that moment. The skin heals eventually. Confidence, however? That’s slower. It lingers at the edges of old wounds, whispering the same exhausted accusation: “still not enough.” Months pass. The world changes. Everyone begins looking… very much like everyone else. Dull clothes. Dull colours. Dull expressions. Nobody wants to stand out. Nobody wants to attract attention. Nobody wants to risk investigation. The streets become oceans of beige. Human beings reduced to various shades of approved tones. The world, once run by beauty and greed, is now simply run by greed. The government presents this as progress. I’m not entirely convinced. Removing one terrible idea doesn’t automatically make the other one charming. And yet something strange begins happening. Whispers. Rumours. Stories. A woman seen wearing lipstick in a supermarket. A man arrested for owning designer shoes. An underground mascara ring operating somewhere in Birmingham. Illegal contouring. Secret moisturiser exchanges. People meeting in back rooms to discuss skincare routines the way revolutionaries once discussed overthrowing governments. The more beauty is outlawed… the more people seem determined to seek it. Not perfection. Just beauty. In all its strange little forms. One evening I stand in front of my bedroom mirror. Outside, patrol vehicles move slowly through the streets. The newly formed Beauty Standard Enforcement Division. Protecting us. Apparently. I study my reflection. Every line. Every flaw. Every feature I’ve spent years criticising. The things social media taught me to dislike. The things beauty standards taught me to hide. The things that make me recognisably me. I find a concealer stashed at the very back of my underwear drawer, hidden between beige briefs and unflattering bras. Forgotten, but not quite thrown away. I hold it in my hand. Somewhere in the distance, a siren rises and fades. And for reasons I cannot explain, I suddenly think about the pigeons. About Naomi Campbell. About beauty. About insecurity. About freedom. About who gets to decide what any of those things mean. The concealer sits quietly in my palm. Waiting. Blue lights drift across the curtains. The patrol moves on. The house falls silent again. I look at my reflection. Then back at the concealer. Then back at my reflection. For years I’d been told beauty was something I lacked. Now I’m being told beauty is something I should fear. Neither is entirely true. The tube rests in my hand. Small. Ordinary. Almost insignificant. Yet somehow it feels heavier than it should. As though the weight isn’t the concealer at all, but every promise it once made to fix things it never truly could.