People often ask me,
“Isn’t handcraft too slow? Why not make it fully automated?”

I always smile at that question.
Because machines are fast.
They can produce thousands of lipsticks in a short time,
each one perfectly identical in color, texture, and shape.

But machines are designed for formulas.
Not for natural materials.

Natural pigments are never truly uniform.
Their concentration varies.
Their particle size shifts.
Humidity, oil absorption, even the air in the room
quietly changes how they behave.

When you force natural materials into strict standardization,
you don’t improve them—
you erase what makes them beautiful.

Natural ingredients are alive.
They respond to heat, time, and touch.
They demand attention, patience, and respect.

Safflower turns orange when overheated,
and too cool, it drifts toward pink.
Gromwell root becomes bitter and dull if rushed.
Dragon’s blood resin must be dissolved slowly, at low temperatures,
or its clarity is lost.
Beeswax, when overheated, loses its natural structure,
making a lipstick fragile and prone to breaking.

A machine will never stop for these details.
But I will.

I change the direction of stirring by hand,
feeling the resistance shift.
I adjust the oil temperature degree by degree,
watching, waiting.
Before pouring, I allow the blend to rest—
not out of habit,
but so the ingredients can truly come together.

None of this exists in a manual.
It cannot be programmed.
It lives in experience, judgment, and care.

This is the meaning of handcraft.
Not romance, but quality.
Not nostalgia, but safety.
Not because slower is better,
but because natural materials can only be treated with intention.

This is a craft refined over a thousand years.
I did not invent it.
I simply practice it—
with modern standards,
and uncompromising respect.