It was early January, and the toyon sapling I’d planted the week before wasn’t nearly old enough to produce fruit. So I asked a friend if I could collect a handful of berries from a plant on their property in the foothills of the San Bernardino Mountains. The mature, mammoth shrub swayed in the transmontane chaparral and held thousands, each as round and red as a phainopepla’s eye.
Back at our cabin on the edge of the Mojave Desert, I mashed a small handful into a red paste and added a splash of water. The concoction smelled fresh and earthy, and I was tempted to taste it, but I resisted: Toyon berries can be toxic if they’re not properly cooked. Plus, I’d prepared the substance for a higher purpose: roadrunner-inspired eyeshadow.
The month before, a greater roadrunner hopped our fence and speared an unsuspecting packrat. It turned its head, displaying a dusky sunset of blue and red over its piercing eyes, the Neotoma limp between its beak. I was transfixed by the roadrunner’s beautiful mug, but it was its fierceness that had me gagging. This haute couture creature didn’t belong in my garden, I thought. It was meant to snatch wigs on runways, like America’s next drag superstar.
The roadrunner’s striking features moved me to try emulating the legendary desert bird. I’ve rarely worn makeup in my life; instead, I often camouflage myself in public, blending into my environment with a simple wardrobe of beiges, sands and sages. Once I became disabled with long COVID, I hid myself even more, masking in public to protect myself from the ever-circulating virus. But now it was time to serve a look — even if it was just for me.
Male roadrunners’ colors become accentuated during mating season. In fact, in many bird species, males are the showiest, sporting iridescent, delectable colors, blooming tail feathers, and, in the case of greater sage grouse, even inflatable air sacs on their chests. Environmental activist Pattie Gonia calls birds “drag queens in the sky.”
The rock ptarmigan uses makeup for survival, muddying itself to camouflage its white plumage as the snow melts. Greater flamingos eat small crustaceans that make their plumage even more vivid, yassifying their campy pink feathers. Scientists have identified 13 avian families that exhibit this type of behavior. Perhaps this is why drag queens have dressed as birds for decades; they, too, appreciate the power of transformation.
As I was making my toyon berry eyeshadow, the Santa Ana gales slingshot a small bird into the side of our cabin with a violent thud. I put on gloves, slipped outside and placed the stunned bird inside a box next to a space heater. A wildlife app identified it as a hepatic tanager, but I was skeptical. It looked like a male house finch, though instead of the usual blushy face and breast, it was electric clementine. Could it, too, be made up? I covered the box with a cardboard top dotted with airholes, set a timer for 30 minutes and returned to my own makeup adventure.
Pattie Gonia calls birds “drag queens in the sky.”
My first layer was foundation. I stripped to my skivvies in a dusty section in my backyard to mimic the iconic dust bath of the Gambel’s quail. Bustling coveys waggle into our yard most mornings, shimmying dirt all over their bodies to preen their feathers of oil and mites. Their bobbing head plumes form the shape of a question mark, putting the “Q” in “LGBTQ+.” I dropped to the ground and dipped, tossed and shook until I was caked in sun-warmed dirt, a salve to the windchill.
Next, I mixed my freshly extracted toyon berry dye with white watercolor paint, turning it the vermillion of cinnabar crystals. I made another dye by swirling the white paint with juniper berry mash from our yard. The resulting blue was weaker than a roadrunner’s cerulean, but it would do. With a watercolor brush, I painted on a white underlayer, then the dusky blue on my eyelids. I accented it with the toyon berry paint.
BUZZ! My alarm went off. I peeked into the cardboard box and was relieved to find that the stunned bird was improving, though he appeared to still be gathering himself. As I waited for my eyeshadow to dry, I compared the injured bird to the finches in our yard and confirmed that it was, indeed, a house finch. An article on Cornell University’s site suggested that some males can have a rare orange variation while molting, likely due to a diet low in carotenoids, the molecules that give fruits and vegetables their reds, oranges and yellows. The finch perched on the towel with closed eyes, looking cozy but traumatized. Did he even know he was the color of a small sun? I set the timer for another hour to leave him more time to recuperate, and I finished my mug.
Last fall, a Mojave desert tortoise went viral for its prickly pear lipstick, a byproduct of munching on the cactus fruit. Zooming in on the photo posted by the Department of the Interior, I noticed the application was minimalistic and simple. No need to overthink it.
Since it was winter and our cactuses were not bearing fruit, I took the white cloudy cochineal on the pads of our prickly pear and extracted it to make another dye. Mixing it with white paint turned it the color of dragonfruit. It went on my chapped lips like an oil stain on pine.
When I looked in the mirror, I realized my makeup was less Meep! Meep! editorialand more Bobo the Clown. But what mattered was that I felt like the roadrunner — and maybe a little bit like the tortoise and the quail, too. Years ago, when I tried drag for the first time, all the girls I got ready with looked beautiful, their personas exuding sass and freedom. I never felt kinship with trying to dress up like a Las Vegas showgirl; I felt like Yucca Man trapped in a coral romper.
But with this look, I finally felt liberated, like the final number in Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, when the film’s stars, a flamboyant trio, dress as emus. I didn’t feel feminine or masculine. I was just a living embodiment of the desert, connected to the toyons, junipers, prickly pears, tortoises, quails and roadrunners all around me.
When I took the top off the orange finch’s box, he peered up at my chaotic face. He remained calmly perched, but his frantic birdness was returning with each passing second. I admired his unique coloring as his movements grew quicker, and he took off with a loud cheep, rising over our fence into an afternoon sun filtered by the sharp tips of a Mojave yucca.
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This article appeared in the March 2025 print edition of the magazine with the headline “Mojave makeup tutorial.”
