I am not sure when I gave up wearing makeup. I was never particularly good at it. As a student, I was thrown into an early 2000s performance of femininity that involved thick eyeliner flicks, dyed hair, doll-like blusher and bright pink lips. I felt the pressure of magazines, adverts and other women’s faces pressing me towards cosmetics like a hockey player being clapped into drinking beer out of their own shoe.

The fact that I never had the patience or the money to pull it off didn’t seem to matter. I wore makeup to work and even more makeup to sweat off on the dancefloor when I wasn’t at work. As my 20s slid into my 30s, I still wore mascara most days. I still owned lipsticks and liquid eyeliners and a vintage powder compact. I could still slap it on in the office toilet mirrors, under the arctic glare of a unisex lightbulb.

But now, at the grand young age of 39, I rarely wear makeup at all. Weeks go by – at my desk, on video calls, at meetings, in cafes and at the school gates – where I bare my bare face to the world without ever thinking about it. Last week, I danced for two crowded, sweaty, heart-thumping hours with nothing on my face but a smear of tinted lip balm. I went for birthday drinks this week after slapping on nothing but a shiny coat of Astral moisturiser. I got my photo taken for an ID pass wearing nothing but clothes.

In fact, here follows an exhaustive inventory of my makeup bag: one mascara (14 months old), two lipsticks (four years old, at least); a tube of £6.99 foundation (bought for my wedding two and a half years ago); and a lip stain (given to me by my mother well before the first lockdown).

A 2017 study by a private clinic touting so-called “semi-permanent makeup” claimed that, over a lifetime, the average UK woman spends 474 days putting on slap. I would love to claim that, out from under those hours spent pinned to the mirror by a bamboo buffing makeup brush, I have clawed back time and spent it wisely – learning conversational Arabic, say, or how to change a fuse. But, then again, why do women feel the need to justify a lack of cosmetic decoration with a bout of self-improvement? Just because I let my eyeliner run out doesn’t mean I have become a monastic sage.

The truth is that letting makeup slide to the very back of my burners has simply given me more time for the tiny, unremarkable, prosaic acts of living that turn mere existence into a life well spent. I can go outside, immediately, upon waking. I don’t care if it rains. I can swim anywhere, at any time, without worrying about water hitting my face. I can – and do – sweat, sneeze, rub my eyes, kiss my loved ones, eat, cry and drink without having to check a mirror afterwards. Bar the inevitable snacks, toys and changes of clothes for my young son, I can travel relatively light. And I have, without doubt, saved hundreds of pounds in comparison with my more makeup-oriented friends.

This doesn’t make me a more successful, more ethical, more politically engaged or more wholesome person. It doesn’t make me a better feminist, or a better parent, and it certainly doesn’t make me more interesting. All it really means is that a lot of people have a pretty good handle on how I look when I wake up.

My mum loves makeup and my granny wore lipstick well into her 90s. My friends do things with brushes and glosses and pencils that are so ingenious they feel close to trompe l’oeil. I have seen, up close and across my whole life, the way that colour, shape and texture can transform your appearance, mood and the way you are treated. Makeup, whether it’s on the face of a bus driver or a drag queen, a teacher or a trapeze artist, can be a creative act and a form of self-expression. But giving it up can also be transformative: a revelation, a liberation, a celebration. It can give you time and money and force you to confront your face, day in and day out. It can bulletproof you against advertising and pull you away from reflective surfaces. But best of all is pushing your face into the sweaty neck of someone you love without worrying that you have made a mess.