Fighting for Beauty Behind Prison Walls

Illustration: Georgie McAusland

For some people, when it comes to how the criminal legal system consistently denies agency or visibility behind bars, denying access to beauty products for the 191,000 women currently incarcerated in the United States falls to the end of the list. Items like mineral-powder foundation or eyeshadow from brands like CoverGirl and L’Oréal can be found in certain women’s prisons for prices averaging anywhere from $1.50 to $16, but for incarcerated women, many of whom are their families’ primary caretakers and work for exploitative wages inside, there isn’t much money left over after making costly phone calls or purchasing commissary food to replace inadequate nutrition options. And then there are the facility-wide makeup bans, which are increasing as of late — within the Department of Corrections’ rules and regulations, even the most routine commodities can be construed as a threat. Alongside shoulder-length hair mandates, limited menstrual-hygiene products, and uniforms exclusively offered in men’s sizes, restricting access to makeup is a means of control, one that also emphasizes how prisons are historically designed for men.

Photo: Maryam Henderson-Uloho

Often, incarcerated women are forced to figure out other ways to make do.

Maryam Henderson-Uloho can still recall how she would do her makeup during her 12.5 years incarcerated. Applying deodorant or Vaseline to brightly colored magazine clips, she would create lip gloss, eye shadow, blush, and even perfume from samples directly off the page. “When Vogue slid under the cell door, it was a lifeline,” Henderson-Uloho says. Many of the women I’ve spoken with say that makeup plays an integral role in building self-worth, fostering community, and seeing themselves as equals with their non-incarcerated peers.

In a system that otherwise takes advantage of women’s bodies and disconnects them from both their communities and each other, makeup is, in Hendderson-Uloho’s words, “color in a colorless world.” So to better understand what role makeup, particularly homemade, plays behind bars, I sat down with four women currently incarcerated in various U.S. facilities.

April Harris, 48, is a writer, paralegal, and a researcher for the UC Sentencing Project. She also has work on view at the San Jose Museum.

Photo: April Harris

When I was 13, I didn’t care for makeup. I was one of those little homebodies, plain Janes. It wasn’t until I was incarcerated that I got into makeup, inspired by the thousands of women who relied on creativity to make their own. Especially at first, I didn’t have the money to buy makeup. I’ve been in here for 28 years, so I’ve tried it all: using the string of a tampon to pluck, thread, and arch my eyebrows because I couldn’t afford tweezers; using immersion heaters to melt down black checkers from the game board, let it dry, and make mascara (until the correctional officers threatened to recall games); getting body soap a little wet to make hair gel for my edges, which dries white eventually; shaving down water color paints and colored chalk from art class to make eyeshadow; using that same paint as nail polish. All in all, it would come out really pretty, and you wouldn’t be able to tell it was these random materials behind the scenes. (Of course, I had no idea if any of this was bad for my skin. You don’t think about those types of things because you just want to look pretty like everybody else). Typically, officers will assume we’ve bought the makeup we’re wearing in commissary.

The trial and error of learning how to make makeup made me fall in love with it. Nobody taught me, and I even remember getting it wrong because I didn’t understand that makeup looks different in different lighting. But I’d go out in the rec yard and various women would give me pointers, like “April, you need to tone that down a bit” or “those aren’t your colors.” Eventually, I even taught a few women throughout the years, especially if I would see they were trying to get it together and missing the mark. Typically I’ll say, “Can I do your makeup for you one day?” and I’ll let them hold a mirror as I’m doing it. That’s how I met one of my good friends, Raspberry. She paroled years ago, but I first met her in the day room. She had these two little braids in her hair and I said, “Could I do your hair?” Then we got into makeup, using two five-by-five mirrors side by side that I had in my room. One day, I turned and looked at her and she was doing her makeup better than I was! In my facility, the California Institute for Women, which houses a few thousand women, it’s rare that you’ll meet someone who does not wear makeup. It’s a cultural thing with us. Nine times out of ten you will see women doing other women’s makeup for them. It serves as a connecting factor for us.

It’s also a coping mechanism. We use makeup as a cover to better ourselves because of how we’re being treated. In here, you’re stripped of integrity and dignity — but these are the very things they want you to have to get found suitable for parole. Last year, a friend of mine went in front of the parole board all fixed up. Immediately, one of the commissioners laughed at her, he said, “You look like a clown coming here with that makeup on.” So you can see why many of us try to dumb down makeup in front of the board. We have this idea, whether it’s true or not, that the more humble and less seen we are increases our chances of freedom.

I like to wear makeup because I feel like a human, especially when I’m speaking with a beautiful officer. Before she even opens her mouth to degrade us, we’re internally giving her praise because she’s pretty and smells good and we feel like crap. And then when she barks at us, it makes us feel even lower. Who we are as people gets squashed. Not just once a day but every moment of the day. Wearing makeup, I feel like I can stand next to the best of the COs, I can stand tall next to my adversary.

I’m hearing now that there is some kind of policy being written where we are no longer going to be able to receive vendor packages — these are vendors like MAC or L’Oréal who have contracts with the prisons — that have colors. Usually, we are allowed to get blues, greens, reds, but there is a policy being written that if it’s not your skin color you can’t have it. In my research work, I’ve tried to find what changed to create this policy. Like, did somebody escape with red lipstick on?! Ultimately, I think women are fixing themselves up nice, we have esteem, our clothes are on, we’re smiling good, and the prison doesn’t like that. They think we’re too pretty, and that’s not what an “inmate” is.

I’ve been in the only two women’s facilities in California, I’ve done journalism work, I’ve researched and collaborated with outside organizations — all of this, and I’ve never heard anyone discuss this, makeup. No one’s talking about it. But we need to, because it’s deeper than how it appears.

Mithrellas Curtis, 38, is a writer, trained Peer Recovery Specialist, and peer mentor for the reentry program at Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women.

Photo: Mithrella Curtis

I have two years left of a 20-year sentence. In order to explain why I wear makeup now, I have to give you a little of my history. My father was a very abusive, controlling, misogynistic man, and he had very concrete ideas about what was proper for a lady to wear — and what only “prostitutes” wore. I only saw my mother wear makeup when he had left visible marks on her face. So makeup, especially red lipstick, is both rebellion and self-expression for me. I wear makeup because it makes me feel good to do it. I do it in the morning, now around 6 a.m., but when I worked in the kitchen, I’d usually have to do my makeup in the dark in my cell before going to work around 3 a.m. The lipstick I love is vibrant, like I am. It’s noticeable. Instead of being something to hide behind, it draws attention, and that’s doubly important to me because my mother wore makeup as a mask. I don’t want to be invisible and, with lipstick, you can’t look past me. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that I constantly get compliments on it, either! Staff will even ask me about my lipstick and talk about my eyebrows — I string them three times a week — which helps me identify myself as a human being. Especially if I go to an outside appointment, like special doctor’s appointments. I’m wearing bright-orange scrubs and belly chains and shackles and in a wheelchair; but from the neck up, I’m wearing my makeup and my hair is done. I think that it impacts how civilians interact with me when they see me rolling down the hall. It helps them remember that I’m a person.

The only homemade makeup I’ve used is colored pencil eye shadow. I put a few drops of water in a lid from a jar of hair grease, dip the pencil in the water, then scrub it around until it becomes soft. Then I can just paint it onto my eyelids as desired. This could also be done with either graphite pencils or colored pencils. Occasionally I’ve painted my lips with M&Ms, licking the candy and rubbing it over my lips to color them. Long ago a friend of mine also taught me how to mix lotion, baby powder, and a few grains of freeze-dried coffee to make a foundation that was surprisingly good. It offered nearly perfect coverage and moisturizer all in one step. I’ve learned to use a dental flosser pick to “curl” my eyelashes while the mascara is still wet by pressing them up away from my eyes. Luckily, now, I buy more of my makeup from our only vendor, Keefe, who has a contract with the DOC; but their selection is limited and often out of stock. [Ed note: Keefe Commissary Network is an outside vendor that supplies commissary items for certain prisons.] Plus, they just introduced a facial-powder restriction, so I have to hold on to my one powder until I go home. (I’ll sometimes ask women with similar skin tones who are on their way out of our reentry unit if I can have the rest of their powder when they leave.) Since we can’t order from outside vendors anymore, I don’t have black eyeshadow, which I would use every day as eyeliner because it’s not as runny. Now, I’ll sometimes ask a friend to paint a cat-eye on my lids with a fine-tipped paint brush and a stick of charcoal or a pot of watercolor paint.

I wear makeup regularly, especially for special occasions inside, like a birthday party or Christmas. Even if there aren’t any big shindigs in the facility, more mascara or concealer allows me to feel the significance of the day. I give my skin a break one day a week or when I’m not feeling well, and I also didn’t wear a lot of makeup when I used to work in the kitchen. But I still like to put a little on, because I wouldn’t go to a job on the streets and not wear makeup, so why not here? We also can’t wear makeup to take our ID photos, so I really don’t look like myself in the card I use to move throughout the compound — medical, school/library, commissary, visits, transportation. Recently, some of the guards have made fun of and fussed at me because my ID doesn’t look like me. “Oh my God, you look like an 8-year-old boy in this!” It doesn’t necessarily hurt my feelings, it’s just frustrating because I don’t have control on what this picture looks like. And of course our pictures aren’t quality photos to begin with. But I do have control over what I look like on a daily basis.

Makeup affirms my freedom and independence. And as a peer mentor and recovery specialist,  makeup is something that I always bring up when we talk about wellness and self-care. I spend a lot of time working with other women inside as they prepare for reentry. The program is about 40 women, and I see about five women a day. I share how important it is for me to have a routine — some of that is yoga and meditation, some is keeping up my hygiene and looking my best, because that makes me feel my best. In our housing unit, we occasionally host a spa day to allow women to feel good about themselves. We do facials, mani/pedis, we have a hair station, and I’ll do makeup with my own supplies at those events. It’s a celebration of self-love, giving ourselves the gift of pampering. When we’ve done these in the past, it’s been a very festive, celebratory atmosphere, especially for women who don’t necessarily have the money to buy those things to do for themselves. Some of us who have been here a long time have products from vendors that we’ve kept for a special occasion over the years, like scented lotion, that we bring out for these days. It really does bring smiles to women’s faces, because we all just want to feel pretty, like we’re loved and appreciated. Usually a week or so after we’ve done one of these events I’ll be at school or the library and people will say, “Wow I heard about your spa day, everyone’s talking about it and we want to do one now!” But unfortunately, the facility has gotten stricter about us hosting these. The last one we requested, on Mother’s Day, was rejected.

Bobbi, 58, has been a jailhouse lawyer since 2006. She has worked on countless cases and amended two prison directives, including the one described below.

I grew up with makeup, starting at 13 years old. It was a rite of passage for me in my family, and I remember that learning to apply makeup meant special time with my mother. She would tell me, “This is your time to look yourself in the eye, to put your lipstick on, and remember to be mindful of your speech with yourself and others.” I just remember her, with all of her big brushes, talking about self-esteem and how we can try to be our best in the world.

Last year, our makeup policy “shifted” — that’s how Albany puts it. For my last 20 years, incarcerated in a women’s correctional facility in New York State, women have been able to receive facial makeup through the package room, including eye shadow, mascara, and lipstick. All of a sudden, under the facial-makeup category, it said “translucent” powder and clear lipstick (which is just chapstick), and that was all that was allowed. Effective immediately. A lot of us panicked. It felt like the beginning, moving through the trauma in county jail when you have nothing and you’re bleeding a pen and making mascara or eyeliner or using your light to boil down a pencil to draw your eyebrows. I know some women take hot chocolate and whip it into a cream. During the last 16 months without makeup, I’ve had to warm my Great Lash mascara every day in my hot pot and put eyedrops in the tube to add longevity. When I eventually threw it out, it was ceremonial. A lot of the women on the unit were hooting and hollering, cheering, as I walked it to the trash can.

We’re not allowed hair dyes, though some women use red Kool-Aid and bleach to color their hair. I’ve now been gray for ten years and people talk to me a certain way because of it. Maybe that’s not how I would present myself normally in the real world, but I’ve lost that privilege. And it’s clear to me that it’s a way for the correction officers, and the superintendent, and everybody along the way to remind me that I’m just an “inmate.” New York is a very progressive state in that the New York Assembly changed our names from “inmate” to “incarcerated individuals.” But then we’re not allowed to express ourselves as individuals, like with hair dye or with makeup, so it just feels like hollow rhetoric. If you treat me like an inmate, like a prisoner, then call it like it is.

I started investigating the new policy. For the life of me, I could not figure out the penological interest to deny makeup. We’re identified on our IDs by height, weight, hair color, and eye color. Certainly, we cannot so drastically change our appearance with mascara, eye shadow, and lipstick as to compromise the security protocols? Why do you care? It feels illogical, patronizing, and extremely punitive. So I filed a grievance with the prison. In it, I explained that, for me, the use of makeup is a cultural issue. All of a sudden, this revised directive forbids me from boosting my self-esteem and affirming my gender with makeup. It prevents all of us from presenting our best selves on family or legal visits, affects my self-image at a pending parole appearance or any events I choose to attend while in prison. Every day that I do not get to wear makeup is a day that I don’t get to express my best self to the world. While in prison, we stand accountable for our worst acts while trying to rebuild our lives. This type of self-reckoning requires us, as women, to be at our best. So let us.

Of course my grievance was retitled as “wants makeup,” which, to me, colors this issue as petty, as if I am advocating for multicolored socks! My lawyer described it as “low-hanging fruit,” but it doesn’t feel that way inside. The college programs even went so far as to bring a makeup artist in for the women’s graduation so the graduates could feel proud of their pictures. That just gives you a glimpse of the level of anxiety women are experiencing, like, “I cannot after three years in college go up on that stage and accept this accolade without makeup.”

Last month, I received the revision notice from the commissioner’s office that makeup is reinstated, which is definitely a big win for all of us. When I got the news, I immediately reached for my lip gloss, which I’ve been saving for only special occasions, and blew myself a kiss in my three-by-five handheld postcard-size mirror. I remember thinking, You did it girl! We’re back in the game! But then somewhere out of the clear blue, our superintendent decided we won’t be allowed mascara because it’s liquid. I said, “No, it’s not liquid. If you turn the tube upside down, nothing comes out, right?” It just feels like most things inside, where processes are retaliatory and grounded in backward logic.

I am grateful to the governor, though. She listened. I don’t know if you can understand what it feels like to be the tiniest person in the whole hierarchy, fighting at the governor’s office to amend a directive. It’s easily a David-and-Goliath scenario. But I feel like Governor Hochul’s office really stepped up to the plate, because we weren’t winning inside. I’m not even her constituent — I can’t vote. But she cared about me and that matters, having a woman governor matters.

For today, I am going to pick up my red lipstick and be proud to be a woman who knows how to roar for change. And my friend already emailed me saying she’s sending me a mascara via package so that I can fight this out.

Sara Kielly, 34, is an investigative journalist, poet, and jailhouse lawyer.

Photo: Sara Kielly

I learned to make makeup from my jail mother, China. We met six months into my 9.5-year stint surviving men’s facilities as a trans woman. It was 2013, at Auburn Correctional Facility, and I had already heard about her from hanging out with other trans women in the yard (particularly if someone is new, we try to stick together). When I moved to the same unit as China, she introduced herself as soon as we came out of our cells that first evening for dinner.

She taught me how to carry myself, because our entire existence is policed 24/7. We’re simultaneously forced to balance expressing our identities while minimizing our femininity so we don’t “provoke” or “entice” unwanted attention. With makeup in the men’s facilities, we had to be very careful. If it was extremely noticeable, the correctional officers would tell us to take it off or we could get in trouble, have our cells tossed.

The equation is simple: The more makeup we wear and feminine we look, the more pushback we get, comments like, “Oh who are you trying to look good for?” Because we’re “prisoners,” we must be doing it to try to game the system or do something we’re not supposed to do. So China showed me how to do just enough that it still looked natural: how to make mascara by crushing and mixing charcoal with vaseline, applying this to a fresh toothbrush, and using the bristles to separate the lashes. For lipgloss, I learned how to make a double broiler with my commissary hotpot to melt down chapstick and, once cooled down, mix it with stocked up packs of no-sugar drink or juice mix.

It was September of 2021 when I was eventually transferred to Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women in New York and could actually purchase brand foundations and lipsticks through commissary vendors or department approved organization sales. I cried when I was able to put real makeup on again. To look in the mirror and see me, to feel as me, and to be able to feel good about me again was overwhelming — a sweet taste of freedom even while incarcerated. Especially for a special event, you’ll often see a bunch of us gathered around the parlor mirror on the unit, or at a day room table with a mirror. It’s a community event, it’s bonding. And for trans women, it provides an opportunity to build rapports and teach an aspect of femininity to those who we may not normally be accepted by. It’s a moment of peace and connection with our sisters that we crave and are denied for too long in men’s facilities or when makeup is taken away.

As of the last few months, multiple facilities have restricted makeup access in the prisons, limiting brand availability to “translucent facial powder” and “clear lipstick.” For me, this means losing access to contour powder, which I depend on to emphasize and de-emphasize certain features, and there isn’t much that can be done to substitute for it. To take away my access to makeup is akin to taking away my ability to breathe, to live as who I am.

As incarcerated women, we have so little that allows us to express our individuality in here, and makeup is one of those things. We know that we are not better or more lovable with makeup on, but at the same time it helps us to feel more confident and put together. We want to look our best for our family, children, spouses and romantic partners when they come to visit, or when we’re taking photos. When we graduate from college, and walk across the stage, or are being interviewed by the media for any number of reasons, or appearing before the parole board, makeup is our war paint. It gives us that slight extra edge of courage.