"Sometimes I say I work in the beauty industry": how a Belarusian woman does makeup for the deceased
Ulyana Starychonak is a thanatopractor. She makes death look less frightening: she hides the traces of severe illnesses, sudden injuries, and a long struggle for life.
All photos: Pavel Rusak / Tochka.by
Ulyana is 36 years old. She has two higher education degrees — in logistics and economics. But these are just diplomas. In reality, the woman manages a funeral service in Borisov and performs post-mortem makeup.
She talks about her work on social media — her videos gather hundreds of thousands of views. Yet, the profession still evokes bewilderment and fear in many.
Tochka.by journalists spoke with the thanatopractor about the most challenging cases, relatives' requests she would never agree to, mysticism, and whether this work has changed her attitude towards death.
Into the profession — through personal grief
Ulyana opens a large black bag. Brushes of various sizes, dozens of foundations, just as many powders, and countless lipsticks.
This kit is almost indistinguishable from a regular makeup artist's cosmetic bag. And sometimes, the woman admits, to avoid shocking people, when introduced, she says: I work in the beauty industry.
"Many items in my arsenal are ordinary mass-market cosmetics. Yes, there are professional products too. But thanatocosmetics are difficult to come by in Belarus: we don't produce them, and imported ones are expensive. At the same time, the mass market in regular makeup has developed so much that it sometimes covers blemishes and defects even better than my professional products," Ulyana explains.
She entered the funeral industry through a personal loss – the death of her grandfather. The family faced a formal approach and the feeling that their grief was just another "order" for someone else.
"My grandfather was a big man, wearing size 54-56. And we simply couldn't find a coffin. This was 2008, not some 90s. The hearse was a worn-out car, the gravediggers had hangovers. Everything looked so disrespectful that it was impossible to accept," the woman recalls.
First, the family opened a funeral goods store, then a service. And Ulyana started doing post-mortem makeup at 20 — without formal schooling or teachers, essentially learning on the job.
"I remember my first job. I walked in — a man was lying there, completely orange. He had an oncological disease. Now I understand: the result was terrible — just foundation, powder not matching the tone. But the relatives thanked me anyway," Ulyana recalls.
She developed in the field independently: she sought information, attended specialized exhibitions, and took courses from Russian specialists.
"You become a true professional in difficult situations. For example, I had a case where a person fell face down on a heater and lay there until he was found. And where do you find the right shade at 8 PM? As a result, you do everything with improvised means — you mix, you sculpt. To some extent, you act as a creator in that moment," the interviewee reflects.
Such situations, the woman admits, force one to constantly learn.
"You don't bury a person twice"
Over the last five years, according to Ulyana, post-mortem makeup has become noticeably more in demand in Belarus. And most often, it's not elderly relatives who come with such a request, but people aged 30-40 — children who want to see their parents "as they once were."
When a person dies in a hospital, they are usually prepared in the morgue. Those who die at home are often prepared for farewells by funeral home staff. Before starting work, the body is thoroughly cleaned with antiseptic agents. This process requires care and adherence to safety measures.
As for the visual aspects, requests vary: hairstyling, hair dyeing, manicure, pedicure, eyebrows, eyelashes.
"Yes, we also glue on eyelashes, most often for cancer patients. There was a 28-year-old girl — we styled her hair according to a photograph, just as she wore it in life, and added eyelashes. For the relatives, it was important to fulfill her last wish — she said she wanted to be beautiful," the interviewee recalls.
But there are requests she firmly answers "no" to.
"There was a request for smoky eyes for a 75-year-old woman. I refused. I said: if you want, do it yourself, but I won't — I consider it inappropriate. In the end, we did a calm, aesthetic version, and the relatives agreed that it was better," the thanatopractor recalls.
The main compliments for her work are "as if sleeping" and "like alive." Because relatives, Ulyana believes, remember not the coffin, but how their loved one looked for the last time.
"I actually think this slightly eases the farewell, helps accept the loss. You can get married again, but you don't bury a person twice," Ulyana reflects.
"Not a body, but a respected one"
She has never been afraid of the deceased. She treats them calmly and with respect.
"I have no squeamishness. Yes, deaths are different, and the smells of death are also different. I won't say you get used to it, but you start to understand. By the smell of the body, I can determine how it will behave further. And it's immediately clear: do we have two or three days, or does it need to be buried now," the woman explains.
In her work, Ulyana says, she always tries to "negotiate" — even if it sounds strange.
"Sometimes I say out loud: you need to endure, you need to wait, not to leak, to get to the cemetery. I understand how this sounds, but for me, it's not nonsense. Or, for example, if I need to set teeth or get somewhere to fix something, I say 'I'm sorry, but I'll do this now'," the interviewee shares.
This approach is even reflected in the words. In Ulyana's funeral service, they don't say "body," but "respected one," the morgue is called a "dormitory," and the coffin — a "little house."
"We don't rake in money with a shovel"
The conversation is interrupted by phone calls now and then. The woman apologizes and picks up the phone.
"Yes, I work around the clock. That's my schedule. I can go on a call at 4 AM, or late in the evening. I'm used to it — it's my life," Ulyana says.
She has to work in various conditions — sometimes literally on the go, in the car. The makeup itself takes from 15-30 minutes to three hours — it all depends on the complexity of the case.
One of the most persistent myths about the funeral industry is that they "rake in money with a shovel" and profit from others' grief. Ulyana hears this regularly but says she can only speak for herself and tries to conduct business humanely.
"There was a case: I was called in the evening, urgently. I arrived and immediately understood: makeup cannot be done right now, certain compounds need to work. They told me: we'll pay even 300 dollars. And I explained: I don't need that. It's important to me that the person looks dignified. And this, by the way, surprises many people the most," the woman assures.
The cost of the work varies and depends on the person's condition. Ulyana has received a maximum of about 200 rubles for her services.
"There was a complex story there: post-operative moments, work with the head, forehead. But such an amount is my ceiling. In general, there are services that cost thousands of dollars. But they are not in my practice. And, of course, few are willing to pay such money — these are already extensive restoration works," the thanatopractor explains.
Over the years in the funeral business, Ulyana has seen a lot: car accidents, suicides, the deaths of teenagers and very young children. She calls children's funerals the hardest.
"It's either constant crying or such silence that your ears ring. And you still process it, no matter what shield you put up," Ulyana says.
One of the most challenging cases in her practice was the story of a 13-year-old girl who died under the wheels of a train. Her parents decided on cremation but asked to open the coffin and see their daughter.
"In essence, it was impossible, but we did everything we could: we created a visualization where the parents only saw her hands. Everything else was covered. They understood that it was her body, but they could at least touch her hands," Ulyana recalls.
Coping with such emotional stress is helped by the feeling that her work truly eases people's farewells to their loved ones. Another form of "unloading" is baking. The harder the day, the more elaborate the cake that appears in the kitchen.
Not long ago, Ulyana herself experienced heavy personal losses: her grandmother and mother died in the same year. This experience finally shaped her attitude towards both her profession and life in general.
Now, the cemetery is a place of strength, not fear.
"I go when I want to. Sometimes in the evening, late. My husband laughs, and I say: I'm going to my people, there and back, I won't bother anyone. I'll sit, I'll talk. No one gives me an answer, but I come out and realize: right, you can do it like this," the woman shares.
Million-view reels and mysticism
A few years ago, Ulyana started talking about her work on social media. Not for advertising — her funeral service in Borisov is already well-known. Rather, it was out of a desire to explain that this side of life can also be "humane."
Her reels on Instagram gain hundreds of thousands of views, some — millions.
Many superstitions and mysticism are associated with death. Ulyana treats this calmly — without fanaticism, but also without denial.
Sometimes animals come to farewells. Once, an unfamiliar dog lay down in the hall — calmly, in the middle of the room. It lay there until the hearse departed, and then simply left.
There are also sudden changes in weather: a downpour during the farewell and clear skies immediately after.
"Someone sees signs in this. If it makes people feel better — then let it be so," Ulyana says.
Relatives often ask if they can put beloved items in the coffin. Her answer is unequivocal: you can and should. They put phones, jewelry, perfume, once — even a can of condensed milk.
However, Ulyana believes that buying new clothes is not necessary. It's better to choose what the person truly loved to wear during their life.
The woman tries to approach death without fear and teaches this to her two daughters. She believes that the fewer taboos, the less anxiety. She speaks calmly about her own passing — she wants to be cremated.
Death, Ulyana says, will not disappear, no matter how much we remain silent about it. But if we accept it as part of life, it ceases to be so frightening.
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