Brush cleaning is the most meditative part of the job. Soap, water, reshape, repeat. It takes long enough that I always have something playing. Lately the rotation has been a mix of prestige drama and pure chaos television, which is also how I prefer my weeks.
Here is what has been on, and the makeup I would give the people in it if they sat in my chair.
Succession (again)
I rewatched the final season while deep-cleaning the denser base brushes. These characters do not need soft glam. They need control.
Shiv would get a precise, slightly sharp eye—thin liner, neutral lid, a lip with a clean edge and no gloss. Nothing that looks like she tried too hard, everything that looks like she decided. Kendall would get the opposite energy: a bit more texture in the skin, less perfection, a mouth that looks like he just wiped it with the back of his hand. Roman would get almost nothing except a brow that stays out of his way and a concealer that covers the previous night. The Roy family does not do dewy. They do power and damage control.
If I had to name a lipstick after this rewatch it would be called “Boardroom.” Cool-toned, medium depth, matte enough to survive an argument.
The Bear
This one ran while I washed every spoolie I own. The energy is heat, pressure, and people who do not have time for a full face.
Sydney would get skin that looks like skin, a strong brow, and a lip stain that can handle being forgotten for six hours. Carmen would get even less—maybe just a bit of corrector under the eyes and a clear brow gel so he still looks like himself when he finally looks up. The kitchen does not reward complicated makeup. It rewards things that stay put while you move.
The lipstick for this show is called “Yes, Chef.” Sheer, a little warm, disappears in the best way.
Love Island (the chaotic season)
I put this on when the cleaning is mindless and I need noise. The makeup is louder, the stakes are lower, and everyone is performing for a camera that never turns off.
Half the villa would get the full soft-glam package: blurred base, lifted eye, glossy lip. The other half would get the “I woke up like this but make it filmed” version—skin tint, cream blush, mascara, and a lip oil that photographs wet. The difference between the two groups is usually just how early they got up and how much product is left in the shared bathroom.
Lipstick name: “Text Me Back.” Bright enough to be seen across the villa, comfortable enough to wear through a challenge.
The Rehearsal
This required more attention than brush cleaning usually gets. The show is already about control and repetition. The makeup would have to walk the same line—precise but not decorative.
Nathan’s world would get almost clinical skin, minimal eye, and a mouth that does not distract from whatever experiment is running. Any guest character who enters the rehearsal would get a slightly more polished version of the same idea, as if the makeup itself is part of the set.
Lipstick for this one is called “Take Two.” Neutral, reliable, and a little unsettling if you look too long.
What the habit actually does
Cleaning brushes with a show on in the background is how I turn a maintenance task into something that does not feel like pure labor. It is also how I keep noticing what different kinds of faces need. A character who lives in crisis does not get the same face as a character who lives on camera. A kitchen and a boardroom ask for different kinds of longevity.
I name the lipsticks because it makes the drawer more entertaining, and because it reminds me that makeup sits on real personalities, not just on bone structure. The shows change. The brushes still need cleaning. The question stays the same: what would this face need to look like itself under pressure?
If I wouldn’t put it on a bride, I won’t tell you to put it on your face.
Even the fictional ones have to meet the standard while the brushes dry.
— Simone
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