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He snapped Shin shut.
Another night without sleep had passed, but that could hardly detract from his appearance. The shape of his face and the tone of his skin were hideous. His eyes were too narrow, their color like that of animals’ eyes. There were beautiful people—one very beautiful person—who would see him today, and the shame of looking this way (ofbeing this way) made him want to roll himself up as small as possible and crawl under the table. He could do nothing to change his eyes, but he could distract from them. He could hide his face and his skin.
He was sitting up already—that’s how he often spent the night—so it did not take very much effort to stand and move to the mirror. Mirrors were terrifying, ugly things. He loved them and hated them. They were security. He saw himself in the mirror, and he knew how he looked; he could see that he had not gotten any uglier. If he had gotten uglier, the mirror would show him, and he could fix it.
He always woke early. Nevertheless, he feared that perhaps people thought that he was lazy and that he spent too much time sleeping; this was because it took him so long to get ready in the morning that he was sometimes late. It was difficult to motivate him to leave his room; he liked to be alone, pretending to sleep and immersing himself in illusion.
The mirror was very large, made from a secret metal alloy known only to one family, and fixed, immobile, to the wall. The reflective metal was special, on the front, not behind a layer of glass—and its surface was free of the secondary reflections and aberrations typical of poorer mirrors. The servants had been instructed to polish it every day.
There was a table next to the mirror. He had it placed so that he could sit at the table and see himself, or stand up next to the mirror and examine his face very closely. Every day, he checked to make sure that there were no new blemishes or flaws. If there were, he scraped them off with long fingernails or pulled them out when he shaped his eyebrows, which he plucked until they were very thin.
Nobody entered while he prepared himself: he would not have stood for it. He did this by himself. What would people—or that person—or even servants think if they saw him without makeup? Barefaced, he did not look very imposing... They would never respect him again.
He began with his hair, to get it out of the way. It took several minutes to brush it, and then he pulled it back into a high ponytail: the hairstyle symbolic of the warrior. He had spent hours watching the other actors put up their hair in this fashion, and because nobody had taught him how to do it, he taught himself.
When he had performed, his hair was always in two buns, as was typical for maidens. Such a thing was not suitable for a Seiryuu seishi.
Tying his hair up tightly pulled back the corners of his eyes, which he felt made him look more authoritative. He chose a black ribbon, although it did not really matter because no one would be able to see it when he had finished. Nevertheless, color symbolism was important even when it went unseen, and black stood for integrity and sound character.
He left out two locks of hair, one on either side of his face. These he bound at the bottom with gold and jade. The heavy locks swung like pendulums when he turned his head to admire himself. They would aid the expressiveness of his gestures.
Upon his head, he placed a golden helmet, inset with pieces of polished jade. Attached to it were two long pheasant feathers, which moved with his hair to articulate the highly stylized emotions he allowed himself to express. In the theatrical tradition, this was the headgear of a general. Perhaps it was a bit presumptuous of him to wear it, but Nakago-sama had never forbidden it, or even noticed.
His hair was not as ugly as his skin and his eyes. At least he could adorn it with beautiful objects to distract from the hideousness of his face.
The application of makeup was a very long process, and that was why he typically arose two hours or more before anyone else. Truly, it was very fortunate that he did not require much sleep.
It had taken him years to master the procedure, and he was proud to say that he was one of the best. Before he left the opera, the other actors would beg to have him apply their makeup for them, and in this way, he learned how to apply makeup for the warrior characters and the romantic young male leads. It was a little difficult when he first began to paint it on his own face—he was used to looking in the mirror and creating the face of an innocent young maiden—but it did not take him very long to learn.
The white foundation was created by mixing bintsukewax and rice powder. He was very careful to apply it in exactly the right places—he absolutely did not want any of his real face to show, and it would smudge if he were not careful. The helmet covered the top of his forehead, but the rest of the makeup edges had to be perfectly precise, or people would think he was careless.
He turned next to the rouge he had carefully made of crushed safflower petals. He had made a habit of investing in good brushes, so he was able to paint very precisely the red lines on his eyes and lips. He also painted a red circle on his forehead to emphasize his bravery and utter loyalty.
Next, he dipped his brush in black kohl to line his eyes, lengthen his eyebrows, and to elongate his eyelashes. He painted black beneath his eyes; then he added black stripes on his chin and nose, but he left the tip of his nose white to show his astute mind and quick wit. He carefully used black paint to edge the red circle on his forehead. Black was for good character, especially moderation.
Colors were very important. He chose colors based not only on his true personality, but also on the image he wished to project.
Next, he applied four indigo stripes reaching diagonally to the center from the corners of his face. This color embodied fortitude and resourcefulness—the ability to create good strategies. He finished his face with tiny flecks of gold for royalty. After all, if he was going to mask his social status anyway, he might as well aspire to as high a rank as possible.
On this morning, it was necessary to touch up his fingernails. Sometimes the paint on them chipped, and he had to replace it. He had learned to be careful with his hands, so the nails hardly ever broke anymore. It was awful when they did, because then he had a dilemma—ought he to cut them all, so they were all the same length? Would it be worse to have asymmetry, or to be forced to re-grow all of his nails? It was a silly thing to worry over, especially since he knew that he would always choose to cut them and have symmetry. Still, it seemed to him that every time it happened, he must give it the full weight of his attention.
The red stain for his fingernails was made of gum arabic, gelatin, beeswax, and egg. Tradition forbade the color red to anyone not of royal birth. However, he liked red and chose to use it, anyway. Nobody had said anything about it, and if someone did, he would tell the unfortunate person to take it up with the His Majesty the Emperor.
When he finally dressed, it was a quick and simple affair, because he always wore the same clothing. It was easier that way. Besides, what he chose to wear was the perfect outfit to express the image he wished to project, and in anything else, he would feel exposed.
He wore red and gold, edged with black. It was a costume reserved for persons of very high rank and virtue. On his feet, he wore go hur, the black boots of the most masculine characters. The white soles were high enough that they impeded his ability to walk, but he did not care. He would wear them, no matter how impractical they were. He had spent more than enough time in those ridiculous high-heeled shoes that mimicked the bound feet of a woman.
The only concession he made to practicality is that he did not wear long, flowing, water sleeves on his tunic. He know how to use them properly, of course, flicking and waving them like water to reinforce his emotive gestures, which would have been be quite useful and pleasant. However, he had found that they impeded him when he was attending to business in the palace.
Thus, when he finally rose to leave his room, he was dressed in a manner carefully calculated to indicate masculine virtue and inspire respect in others.
Still, he could never be completely confident that it worked. Maybe the heavily stylized gestures he had practiced—the ones that enabled him to tell lies on a stage—were transparent from a conversational distance. Maybe people could see the ugliness underneath; maybe they could see the uncertainty he felt or his desire for approval or his fear.
Sanctuary could be found only in illusion. There was very little appreciative difference between reality and invention, and everybody lied.
Nevertheless, he took pleasure and pride in starting with something so disgusting and creating something beautiful on top of it. And when he became frustrated with the amount of time and effort he spent on his appearance, he simply reminded himself that he was fortunate to have a surface for his paint that renewed itself each day.
Beauty was the most important thing in the world—more important than life. All of his works must be beautiful, even the ones that caused destruction.