Coming to Oxford Circus without Dina felt strange. Shopping was our thing and meeting Lucy instead almost felt like I was cheating on her.
Red double-decker buses rumbled by, black taxis and rickshaws blaring Arabic music zoomed past me; hundreds, maybe thousands of tourists ambled along, knocking into me because I was so lost in my own head that I barely registered them. Even my left arm missed Dina, the one that was always hooked into her right arm. She was the louder, the more assertive of the two of us, and I tended to follow her around. Not like a shadow exactly, I wasn’t that much of a non-entity. More like a younger sister. I didn’t know how I would choose new clothes without her guidance.
My shoulders slumped and my feet dragging, I forced myself into Selfridge’s, where I was meeting Lucy. I knew it was expensive, but I didn’t have the nerve or energy to traipse around a hundred different high-street shops. I guess the one good thing that had come out of years of working without much of a social life or fashion sense was that I had enough money to splash.
‘Maya! Hi, babe!’ Lucy came rushing up to me like a golden blur; beautiful, tanned skin, blonde hair cascading down her back in big curls, a beige coat over a cream jumper, cream trousers and tan suede boots. A brown Louis Vuitton tote was casually slung over her shoulder, completing her look. She looked like she had stepped off the set of Made in Chelsea, not Made in Edmonton.
‘Hey, hun, ready to transform me?’
‘I’ve been ready and waiting for over two years,’ she laughed and I smiled weakly in return. ‘You’ve got so much potential, but you hide beneath all these drab, baggy clothes.’
‘OK, say it like it is, Luce.’
‘The important thing is that we’re here now,’ she continued, ignoring the pained expression on my face. ‘You won’t regret this.’
Lucy headed off towards the escalators and I followed her, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my stride. She was doing me a favour by giving up her relaxing Sunday to revamp my look. I didn’t want her to think I was ungrateful; I was just put out that everyone around me basically thought I’d looked like crap all these years and no one had bothered telling me before now.
‘Not everything here is crazy expensive,’ Lucy explained as we went up a level to women’s fashion. ‘There are nicer high-street brands here as well. Let’s start there. We need to get you some classic staples that you can mix and match with more interesting pieces to create a stylish look. We have to work fast though. I’ve also booked you an appointment with a hairstylist.’
I’d tuned out by then and let Lucy lead the way. I let her pull things off rails, seemingly at random, before shoving me into the dressing room to try it all on. She made me try on things I’d never dared to wear before – jumper dresses, blazers, silky tops, jumpsuits, tailored trousers that fit properly – as well as boots, shoes and casual things like jeans, hoodies and fashionable trainers. We got a new coat and jacket and before I knew it, she had dragged me to a different floor where there was a salon.
‘What are we doing here?’ I asked, slightly panicked. The most I ever did to my untamed black hair was get a trim.
‘You’re getting a haircut. Didn’t you hear me say so earlier?’
‘But I don’t have an appointment.’
‘You do. I made one for you after Hampstead Heath. Are you not listening to anything I’m saying? You’ve also got a makeup session booked downstairs.’
Part horrified, part excited, I followed her into the salon and slumped into the seat, tuning out Lucy and the stylist as they lifted up bits of my hair and discussed what to do with it.
‘Wait!’ Lucy cried out, just as Hannah, the hairstylist, was about to cover my clothes with a nylon apron. ‘Let me take a before pic. You’re going to feature on my brand-new socials.’
My face heating up with the thought of having my substandard self out there for people to openly gawk at, I stood and let Lucy take pictures and videos of me. She had supported me through my entire life overhaul, the least I could do was help her launch her own styling brand.
‘Right, I’ll be back in a bit,’ Lucy said as I sat back down. ‘There’s still a lot of work to be done. See you in an hour or two!’
I watched my friend leave and followed Hannah to the sinks, where she gently washed my hair, massaging my scalp so wonderfully that I almost fell asleep. So this was what self-care felt like? Why hadn’t I bothered to pamper myself all these years? Thanks to living with my parents, I had enough disposable income, but spending money on myself so I could feel good had always felt like a waste. Maybe it was because my parents never did it. My dad is a first-generation immigrant, who came here to study and make a better life for himself and his family back in Bangladesh. Most of his extra income got sent straight back to his paternal village, where he supports his siblings and their children, from paying for their education to helping out with their medical expenses, marriages and emergencies. My dad and his only brother in the UK pay for it all.
Because of this, we’ve never really had much to spare. Ma has had to work hard throughout her marriage. She paid for all of our expenses when we were younger, as well as supporting my Nani with her extras. ‘Me time’ and ‘self-care’ were ideas for the privileged, not for people like my parents.
But maybe it was time for me to break the cycle and make a change.
I decided not to look in the mirror after my hair was cut, dyed and styled and wait for my makeup to be complete so I could look at it together, like a proper makeover moment. After we left the salon, Lucy led me back downstairs to the huge beauty section with its various counters holding all sorts of lotions and potions guaranteed to make me look and feel spectacular. My dad would have had a heart attack if he knew what I had spent on what he would see as glorified Nivea.
During the makeup session, the artist talked to me about my features and complexion and the products and colours that would suit me the most. I listened attentively to all her advice, tips and techniques. Who knew you were supposed to put concealer on after foundation? I thought it was the other way round. Who knew that I could cover my pigmentation with a bright orange liquid called corrector? No wonder my makeup never looked flawless.
Lucy hovered around ‘creating content’ – I dreaded to think what was going to end up on her new accounts later.
An hour or so later, my makeup session was over and my bank balance was another few hundred pounds lighter as I had decided to buy everything the makeup artist had suggested. I was still in my old clothes, so Lucy insisted I follow her to the dressing room and change into one of my new outfits before I looked at myself, to get the full impact of my transformation.
‘How am I supposed to change with my eyes closed?’ I grumbled as she ushered me into a cubicle.
‘I’m going to block the mirror,’ she said, handing me a new pair of wide-leg trousers and a cropped jumper.
‘What, you’re coming in with me?’
‘Yes! I won’t look at your naked body, if that’s what you’re worried about. Although it’s not like it’s anything I’ve never seen before.’
I doubted my hairy, discoloured and stretch-marked body was anything like Lucy’s perfect one. She was white and blonde. Her body hairs were invisible and if she had any stretch marks, the silvery lines would be barely visible on her pale skin. She wouldn’t have darker underarms or knees. Her acne scars wouldn’t leave black marks all over her back.
Apparently, my body was ‘normal’, but it wasn’t on mainstream TV or in magazines, not even the South-Asian ones. Everywhere I looked, I saw smooth perfection and anything different was an abnormality.
True to her word, Lucy looked away so I quickly yanked off my old clothes and pulled on the ensemble she’d given me. When I was dressed, she fixed the hair I’d messed up by pulling the jumper over my head and then moved aside to let me finally take a look at the new me.
My jaw fell open as I stared at my reflection, barely able to recognise myself. The girl – no, woman – staring back looked like me, but so much more put together. I looked like someone who knew her worth and took care of herself, mind and body. My eyes prickling, I stepped closer and touched my new hair: chestnut, wavy, glossy, with no split ends and high- and low-lights that were so well-blended that they looked like they were given by God, not Hannah from the salon.
My new makeup was subtle and accentuated what I already had. My eyes looked more soulful and my lips were dark red, a colour I would never have dared to try myself. People – aunts, cousins, so-called well-wishers – had always told me that red was for fair-skinned women. I’d thought my complexion was too dark for bold colours. As for my skin, for the first time in my life I thought my shade of brown was beautiful. I had never worn a foundation that suited me perfectly. My shade was hard to match; brown but with a red undertone instead of a yellow one. I had spent most of my adulthood searching for a foundation that didn’t turn me grey or yellow. The one I was wearing was a mix of two shades and while part of me was pissed off that in this day and age people with my tone still struggled with makeup, I was also relieved that a solution actually existed.
I didn’t look like an entirely different person, just a smoother, brighter, glossier one. My outfit – simple tailored black trousers, a cream jumper, black boots and a camel-coloured coat – didn’t merely do the job of clothing my body, it did so much more. It told a story; one of happiness, success and confidence. The tailoring and cut were perfect, hugging my curves, elongating my legs, narrowing my waist. I was like Maya, V .2.0.
‘I can’t believe this is me,’ I whispered, barely able to get the words out. ‘Why have I never done this before?’
‘Because you never had me helping you before,’ Lucy laughed, glowing with pride. She looked like a mum whose daughter had won a beauty pageant. ‘Come on, I think we need to go out and test your new look. But first, let’s add this . . .’ She took off the gold-plated bracelet she was wearing on her own wrist and clipped it onto mine.
‘Lucy, what are you doing? I can’t accept this!’
‘You can. It finishes your look. You’ve gone for understated chic glamour and this is perfect. And it’s also a thank you from me.’