How did I know I was meant to be a makeup artist?

Well, sometimes the course of your life can be clarified in an instant, a single transcendent moment when you discover how your God-given gifts can make a difference for someone else. A light goes on, something clicks inside. Your path is clear.

That’s what happened to me at the Westminster Mall in southern California when I was 18.

I was working at Merle Norman Cosmetics, doing makeovers, showing women how they could look their best. A flattering shade of foundation, a little eyeliner, a different blush, a bit of reassurance, and they could see themselves with new eyes.

Of course, I was supposed to sell Merle Norman products too, but I ended up more interested in the women themselves.

Women of all different ages and backgrounds would walk in and take a seat at my counter. “How can I help you today?” I’d ask.

I could see their finest features—what made each of them beautiful in her own unique way—and I thought they’d want tips on how to play up that natural beauty.

But most of the time they’d gaze into the mirror and fixate on what they thought was wrong with their looks. “My eyes are too close together” or “I can’t stand my freckles” or “My lips aren’t full enough.”

I could tell how vulnerable these women felt sitting there scrutinizing their features, and I wanted to help. I wanted to tell them, I know how you feel. You see, for most of my childhood and teenage years, I thought I was awkward beyond hope.

I wrongly thought that my face was too pudgy, too big and too wide—my nose, my mouth, my cheeks, and don’t even get me started on my forehead. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw every one of my flaws magnified.

It didn’t help that everybody in the beachside town where I grew up was a surfer…or looked like one. As a 10-year-old, I wanted nothing more than to join the junior lifeguards, but when I heard I’d have to put on a bathing suit and parade in front of the other kids, I quit before training even started.

Why? Because I’d been called “thunder thighs” one too many times.

The cruelty and teasing didn’t stop there. Once in art class in junior high we did a project where we cut out construction paper silhouettes of ourselves and posted them on the wall. “It’s easy to tell which one is Carmindy,” one classmate announced. “She’s the one with the double chin.”

In high school, I became convinced a trip to a luxe beauty salon would fix what was wrong with me. I saved up my babysitting money for months. I walked into the salon and sat down at a stylist’s station, feeling like a princess. Then the stylist pulled back my hair, peered at my face and clucked his tongue. “You should always wear bangs, dear,” he said. “Anything to cover up that forehead.”

Cover up. That’s what the women who came to my counter at the mall wanted me to do. Hide their so-called faults. Remake them into someone who didn’t look a thing like their natural selves. “That’s not always the best approach,” I gently tried to tell them.

I’d done it myself back in high school with disastrous results. I slathered on foundation to mask my freckles. Overdid bronzer in an attempt to contour that wide face of mine. Piled on layers and layers of eye shadow and mascara to draw attention away from my huge forehead.

My mother, an artist and a former model, could see I needed a new perspective. She took me to John Robert Powers School of Modeling, where I learned the principles of good makeup. I found out that less was often more and that tons of eye makeup made me look like a raccoon, not a movie star.

But there was something far more important that I got from my mom, something essential to who I am and what I believe. And that’s the idea that beauty comes not from how you look but how you feel about yourself.

We all carry around voices in our heads—usually echoes from childhood—telling us that we are too fat or too scrawny or have funny noses or thunder thighs. To counteract that, we need a positive voice, one that reminds us we all are made in God’s image and, therefore, inherently beautiful.

For me, that voice was my mother’s. When the taunts of my classmates brought me to tears, I found comfort in her arms. “Honey,” she said, holding me tight, “you are beautiful just as you are.”

Of course, it took me almost 18 years to understand what my mom meant, to truly believe it. If only I could help the women who came to the mall for makeovers see it for themselves. But what could I really do in the short time I had with them?

One day I was standing at the Merle Norman counter, my brushes at the ready, my favorite lipsticks lined up. A woman with deep creases etched in her forehead came in. “Do you think you could help me?” she asked hesitantly.

“I’d be glad to,” I said.

She sank into the chair opposite me. “I need a complete makeover,” she said. She had a pretty smile, but there was something so sad about her. She could hardly glance in the mirror before turning away, and I wondered what made her feel so unhappy with herself.

“Let’s start with some foundation,” I said. I went through several to find just the right shade that would bring out her skin’s glow. There’s something very intimate about putting makeup on someone. You’re leaning close to her, touching her face. It feels natural to start chatting.

And that’s what I did with her, as I did with all my clients. I wanted to know something about them—where they lived, what they liked to do, how many children they had. If I saw a spark, I’d get a better idea of what made them tick. But there didn’t seem to be anything this woman was passionate about.

I swirled some blush on, and all at once tears started rolling down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” I said, getting her a tissue. “Are you okay? Was it something I did?”

She shook her head. “It’s my husband,” she said. “Nothing I do ever pleases him. He criticizes everything—my cooking, my clothes, my looks…”

She talked some more and I listened while I worked, applying a sheer eye shadow, dabbing gloss on her lips. I didn’t feel qualified to give her advice about marriage—I was just a teenager, after all—but I wanted to show her how lovely she was. Her smile was warm and her eyes, even when she was so upset, were soft and kind.

For a while we were both silent, that silence of two people concentrating together. I did my best to make my work convey to her what my mother said to me, “You’re beautiful just as you are.”

When I was finished, I turned her chair to face the mirror. And in that moment, she saw it. “You’ve made me beautiful!” she exclaimed.

“No,” I said, “I didn’t do that. That’s how you were made.”

“Thank you so much.” She held my hand for the longest time. She might have even bought a product or two—that I don’t remember. What I will never forget is that wondrous feeling of knowing deep in my soul that this was what I was meant to do, help women see the beauty they were blessed with.

You know how I said I was more interested in the women themselves than in selling them Merle Norman products? Well, I got fired for not selling enough.

I promptly got a job doing makeovers at another place in the mall. I moved on from there, working with women all over the world (some models, some not), and eventually established myself as a top makeup artist.

Today, I’m the makeup artist for TLC’s hit TV show What Not to Wear. I write books on beauty (the latest is Crazy Busy Beautiful). I’ve cocreated a line of cosmetics.

Sure, makeup is about transformation—but not the kind of transformation that means becoming someone you’re not. It’s about bringing out your own unique and natural beauty, believing in your God-given gifts and letting them shine through.

How else would a teenager have discovered her calling doing makeovers at the mall?

Get some beauty tips from Carmindy here!

The service ended that Sunday in 1996, and I trudged out of church into the torpid heat of an Atlanta summer, feeling further from God than ever.

It wasn’t the sermon or the hymns or the prayers. It was me. I was at a dead end.

I’d been a television reporter for years, working in cities up and down the East Coast. My goal had been to make it to the network level by age 35. My ultimate dream was to be on 60 Minutes someday.

But here I was, almost 36, at a local affiliate, a general assignment reporter for Atlanta’s WSB-TV. The only other job in sight was at a golf magazine. My finances were in bad shape and the golf gig would pay more than I was making. I was tempted. Really tempted.

I headed down the sidewalk, squinting against the blinding sun. I’d thought God had given me my dream, but now I wondered. How long was I going to keep banging my head against a wall? What if I never made it?

Failure was what most people expected of me growing up. I had a terrible stutter and I struggled academically—so much that I was sent to remedial classes. You can probably guess the teasing I was subjected to. “Byron’s stupid.” “His name should be Moron.”

Those taunts still drove me. I kept a tape of my worst reporting work and I watched it almost every morning, replaying my mistakes. I used it to get me going, to motivate myself to try harder. But maybe all that effort wasn’t worth it.

I glanced back at the tall brick steeple. Why hadn’t I found the comfort in worship I used to? Church was the highlight of my week when I was a kid. Sunday mornings I’d settle next to Mama into our pew at New Shiloh Baptist Church in Baltimore and drink in the wonders around me: the stunning stained-glass window framing the pulpit, the rise and fall of the preacher’s voice making Bible stories come alive, the joy on Mama’s face as she sang “His eye is on the sparrow” (so different from the weariness after a long day at her seamstress job).

Church made me happy too. It was my refuge. I didn’t stutter when I sang, and there were no teachers to call on me and make me sweat over how I was going to fake an answer. I was a scrawny kid with big glasses and an even bigger secret, a secret that didn’t seem to be such a burden on Sundays.

You see, I couldn’t read. Ten years old and I couldn’t do much more than spell my name and recognize the words “St. Katharine’s” on my school building. I was great at memorizing, and that’s how I fooled everyone. I’d get Mama or my older brother, Mac, to read me passages from my textbooks and then if a teacher called on me I would repeat what I’d heard.

I passed first, second and third grades—barely, even with Mama spending a couple hours every night going over my homework with me. She never guessed I couldn’t read. But by fourth grade, I couldn’t fake it anymore.

The school insisted I take a battery of tests. One afternoon a man came to our house with the results. I sat next to my mom and dad on the sofa, trying not to squirm. The man cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Pitts,” he said. “Byron is functionally illiterate.”

My dad looked away, frowning. My mom raised her hand to her mouth, shocked. I didn’t understand their reaction until the man went on. “We don’t know why,” he said, “but he simply has never learned to read.”

My secret was out.

“Keep your head up,” Mama told me. “We’ll just work harder. We’ll spend four hours a night on your schoolwork. We’ll pray when we start, pray when we get tired and pray when we’re done.”

We worked and worked for months. I got nowhere. I was put into remedial classes that met in the school basement. All I could see were the feet of the people walking by outside, and I felt like life was passing me by too. I knew what those people thought, That’s where the dummies are sent, the losers and failures.

One day at home I was watching TV and saw a commercial for a reading program for adults. “If they can teach grown-ups,” I said to Mama, “maybe they can teach me.”

Mama called the program. Soon, a special monitor was delivered to our house. I put slides in it that displayed words, letters and pictures. Day after day I sat in front of it, trying to learn what the different letters looked and sounded like.

“I’m never going to get this,” I told Mama. “Everyone’s right. I’m a m-m-moron.”

“You’re not a moron, Byron,” she said. “Did I ever tell you about the job I had driving a tractor-trailer? I wrestled with shifting those gears every day and people laughed at me. But after I got it, no one minded about the struggle; they just saw me as a truck driver. You will do this. You just have to keep working at it.”

I did. I sat with that monitor and with my schoolbooks and sounded out words over and over. And I prayed just like Mama said—when I started, when
I finished and especially when I got tired. A simple prayer: “God, please help me read.”

Toward the end of sixth grade my teacher sent me home with a note. I called Mama and told her she had to come home immediately so I could show it to her. She sat down at the dining room table.

I stood next to her and unfolded the note. “Byron is doing much better at school,” I read slowly. “He is making p-p-progress.” I’d never seen Mama look so joyous outside of church. She hugged me hard. “Lord, thank you,” she murmured.

In junior high and high school I worked even harder. I had a lot of catching up to do, and I was determined to get into college. One of the proudest days of my life—and Mama’s—was when she dropped me off at Ohio Wesleyan University.

But I was so out of my depth I felt like I was back in fourth grade again, struggling to sound out words while my classmates were buzzing through entire books. I failed my freshman English class. The professor called me into his office.

“I’ll make this quick,” he said. “I’m sorry, but you are not Ohio Wesleyan material. I think you should leave this university.” He looked me straight in the eye. “That’s all. Good luck to you.”

I left his office, numb. Maybe I would never get out of the basement no matter how hard I tried. It would break Mama’s heart if I dropped out, but what else could I do?

I went to University Hall and picked up the forms to withdraw from school. Papers in hand, I sank down on a bench outside and burst into tears—nose-running, shoulder-shaking tears.

“Young man, are you okay?” someone asked. I looked up. A middle-aged woman was standing there.

Maybe it was the kindness in her expression, but I blurted, “I don’t belong h-h-here. I was fooling myself to think I could make it.” Everything poured out of me, what my professor had said, how ashamed I was to be failing, how stupid I felt. I was crying, sniffling and stuttering.

“That’s nonsense. Promise you will speak to me tomorrow before you make any decision to drop out. My name is Ulle, Ulle Lewes. My office is on the second floor of Slocum Hall. Please come see me at eleven.”

It turned out Dr. Lewes was an En­glish professor. She met with me three, sometimes four, hours a week. She went over my writing assignments, correcting the grammar, punctuation and sentence structure. When I got those basics down, she made me set higher goals. “Never settle for less,” she said. “Push harder!” Dr. Lewes taught me to love the written word.

And the spoken word? The person who changed my life there was my speech professor, Ed Robinson. “How long have you stuttered?” he asked gruffly one day after I stumbled over an answer in class. “I think I can help you.” And he did, improvising as we went along. I practiced speaking with a pencil in my mouth, read Shakespeare forward and backward, sang sentences then spoke them. Dr. Robinson encouraged me to host a show on the college radio station. Oddly, I never stuttered on the air.

That’s how I discovered my calling: broadcasting. I graduated with a degree in journalism and landed a reporting job at WNCT-TV in Greenville, North Carolina. From there I’d worked my way up to TV stations in bigger markets: Norfolk, Orlando, Tampa, Boston and now Atlanta.

Yet here I was in the heat of a Georgia summer, trudging down the sidewalk after church, wondering if broadcasting was the right path after all. I was tired of worrying about how I was going to pay my bills, of telling myself, “When I get to network, everything will work out.” All those people who’d helped me, who’d believed in me, their trust must’ve been unfounded. Where had my struggles gotten me? Not where I’d dreamed.

I stepped into the intersection. Suddenly I sensed something to my right and jumped back onto the curb. A car zipped past, just inches from me. A couple of birds that had darted up from the road circled in front of me. They made me think of the words of Mama’s favorite hymn, “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me.”

In that moment I felt like a little boy sitting next to Mama in the pew at New Shiloh, praying that someday I’d be able to read, to overcome my stutter. Hadn’t that happened? Hadn’t God watched over me? And he was watching over me still. I’d been so focused on my doubts, on replaying that tape of me at my worst, that I’d forgotten who was truly helping me become the best I could be.

“God,” I said, “from now on, I’m going to trust you and your purpose for me. Not my plan but your plan.”

After that I began my mornings reading Scripture, not watching that old tape. The Bible helped me reconnect to the reasons I wanted to be a broadcast journalist—telling stories that help people, inform them and inspire them. When an opportunity came up at CBS in Washington, D.C., I was ready. And the chance to work at 60 Minutes—my dream job? That finally came too.

I keep a Bible here in my office at 60 Minutes. It’s the first thing I read in the mornings, even before my e-mail. One of my favorite passages is from Luke: “Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? And not one of them is forgotten before God.”

Not one of us is forgotten either.

Read about which 3 books inspire Byron and why!

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