Five-Minute Everyday Eye

One pencil, one shadow, one mascara. The formula Nelly has used for a decade, and the three products she would take to the airport in a coin purse.

Ten years ago, I was doing my eyes in seven steps and calling it minimal. A primer, a base shadow, two transition shades, a liner, a highlight, a mascara. I was spending twenty-two minutes on something most people pass on the street without noticing. I timed it. I am insufferable.

Then I moved — Istanbul to London, then London to somewhere else for a few years — and at some point between a third-floor flat and a suitcase that refused to close, I made a decision. Three products. One pencil, one shadow, one mascara. Five minutes, any mirror, any light. That formula has not changed since.

What surprised me was not that it worked. What surprised me was that it looked better. Not more natural — better. The eye I was creating in seven steps had too many hands in it. The three-product version has a coherence the other one never found.

The line should suggest itself, not announce itself. There is a version of eyeliner that is armour. This is not that version.

The formula, in four parts

The pencil, and why it matters most.

The pencil is doing the majority of the work, which is why most people do it last and wonder why everything looks wrong. A warm brown — not black, not grey, warm brown, the colour of very good espresso — applied to the upper lash line and smudged immediately with a fingertip. Not a brush. A fingertip is warmer and slightly imprecise in a way that reads as deliberate. You want the line to suggest itself, not announce itself.

I carry a pencil that costs almost nothing. I have tried the expensive ones, and they are better, and I still carry the one that costs almost nothing because it sharpens reliably and travels without drama. What matters is the formula — creamy, not waxy — and the warmth of the pigment. A cool-toned pencil will make the eye look tired. A warm one makes it look present, which is what we are actually after on a Tuesday morning.

The shadow, and why matte.

One shadow, pressed matte, taupe or warm beige or something that reads as a deepened version of your own lid. The job of this shadow is not to add colour. The job is to add dimension — to make the eye appear set into the face rather than sitting on top of it. Swept across the lid with a flat brush, brought slightly into the crease, stopped there. Sixty seconds, if that.

Shimmer is not wrong. Shimmer in the inner corner on a Friday evening is one of the better things I know. But shimmer as a daily step adds a layer of intention that requires justification — it needs to be balanced, blended, considered. Matte asks nothing of you. It sits down, does its work, and does not require a follow-up conversation.

The mascara, and the one rule.

Two coats, upper lashes only, and then stop. This is the rule. It has no exceptions. One coat dries too quickly to build on. Three coats is where mascara stops being makeup and starts being a structural project — it clumps, it smudges at the outer corner by 2pm, and removing it takes an extra minute you will resent at 11pm.

Lower lashes I leave entirely. This is the opinion that tends to provoke people, and I have made my peace with provoking people. Lower mascara makes the eye look smaller, not larger, and it ages without warning. The upper lash line, treated properly, does not need a counterweight.

What it cost to simplify.

I gave up the lid primer, which had taken me four years to find and which I had believed, earnestly, was responsible for the longevity of everything above it. I gave up the blending brush and the fan brush and the brush I had bought specifically for the inner corner. I gave up the highlighter I was applying to the brow bone, which I am now certain no one ever noticed.

What I kept: the pencil, the shadow, the mascara. What I gained: five minutes every morning that I now spend doing something else, or doing nothing, or simply standing at the window with a coffee in a city I chose for reasons that have nothing to do with my bathroom shelf. This seems like a small thing. It is not a small thing.

The three products go in a coin purse when I travel. One of those small leather zip pouches that is too small for anything sensible. They fit exactly. I take nothing else for the eye. I have done this for ten years across a number of countries and I have never wished I had packed more. That, I think, is the only review worth writing.

The eye is only one part of the face, and the other parts are written up separately. The brows that frame it come from three measurements and a pencil; the full weekday sequence it slots into is a nine-minute morning that ends at the door; and if a balm on the lid keeps sliding into the crease, the no-makeup kit explains why this pencil-and-shadow version is the better choice for a hooded lid.

Two coats and stop. The third coat is the one you will spend the rest of the day managing.