Final touches: She prepares the dead to heal the living

AILEEN Ong was just 13, when she stood over her cousin's coffin — and barely recognised him. He'd died in a horrific accident, hit by both a lorry and a bus. "It was an unspeakable tragedy and a huge loss for my family," she says softly.
But it wasn't just the loss that haunted her.
His face had been made up with thick makeup, two bright red spots painted on his cheeks and a stiff Presley-like hairdo. It felt wrong — almost theatrical. That image burnt into her memory.
Years later, she'd sit beside another still body — this time with purpose.
Her brush moves slowly across his face. Bit by bit, the harshness fades. He looks like he's only fallen asleep. Ong works in silence, her touch light but certain. Her hands don't tremble. Her heart stays steady. There's no fear, no hurry — only care.
This isn't just makeup. It's memory. It's dignity. It's her quiet way of honouring the life that once was.
"When someone passes away, their appearance can change," explains Ong, adding: "Makeup and restorative work help bring back their natural look… the way their loved ones remember them."
For grieving families, it can make all the difference. Seeing someone who looks like themselves, peaceful and familiar, brings comfort. It helps them say goodbye with dignity, without regret. To Ong, it's not just about how they look. It's about having compassion and giving families one final, gentle memory to hold on to.
Beyond applying makeup, Ong's work includes bathing the body, embalming, repairing stitches and covering wounds — tasks that demand patience and great attention to detail. Her goal, she says, is simple but powerful: to protect the dignity of the dead.
"As a mortuary cosmetologist, I make sure no one says anything unkind about how the person looks," she explains, adding: "Bruises, cuts or discolouration — all of that can be covered. What matters most is that they look like they're at peace, as if they're just sleeping."
But for many, the idea of making up and dressing the dead sounds like a morbid job. Ong knows that well.
"Explaining it isn't easy," she admits, chuckling, adding: "When I introduce myself in Chinese, people often translate it as 'dead people makeup'!"
The words alone are enough to make some recoil. But the 42-year-old doesn't flinch. She sees beyond the discomfort and fear that often surround death.
Says Ong: "It's not creepy to me. It's meaningful. I'm helping families through one of the hardest moments of their lives. And I'm helping someone leave this world with dignity."
NO ORDINARY JOB
It's late at night when Ong appears on my screen from Johor Baru during our Zoom call, grinning, and clad in a simple T-shirt and shorts. The late hour doesn't faze her; she's used to it. She chats with me like an old friend. And if I'm expecting grim or ghostly stories, she's quick to set the record straight.
"No ghost stories," she insists, waving it off. "I'm not scared. I'm just doing my job, working on the deceased lah."
She doesn't approach the dead with indifference, nor does she take her role lightly.
Before her hands begin their careful work, there's a ritual she holds sacred.
"I ask the loved ones to speak to the deceased and to let them know I'll be caring for their body," she says.
This happens during the first examination, where she insists the family be present.
"It's not just about preparation, but it's also about respect," she explains, adding: "I check the body in front of them, especially for any wounds. If there's been an autopsy and the stitching is rough, I'll restitch it to make it less noticeable. I use wax vaseline to smooth over any marks and help the body look more presentable."
But before any work begins, the introduction is vital. It isn't just for the deceased, she says — it's for the living too. A moment to bridge the space between loss and care, between goodbye and what comes next.
"It's to make everyone — including me — feel at ease," says Ong, adding: "I'll ask for the person's favourite song and play it. I want to make the moment as comforting as possible."
She gently encourages the family to speak to their loved one. "Tell them who I am. Tell them I'll be caring for their body," she tells them. "That I'm here to help."
Once the introduction is done, the family steps out. When her work is finished, she invites them back in. "I ask them to tell their loved one that I'm done and that I'm leaving."
Why go through all this?
"Because I'm a stranger," she replies simply. "And I'll be touching the body. They don't know me. Not the person lying there, not the family. So, this is about trust." In the end, she says the ritual is more for the family than for the one on the table.
Does she think the dead know?
She pauses, choosing her words carefully.
"I don't have a ghost story to tell," she finally answers. "But from experience, the body often feels very stiff at first. There's resistance in the limbs — call it rigor mortis, if you like. But after the family speaks to their loved one, something changes. The body softens. It becomes more relaxed, more pliable."
This wasn't the path she had in mind at first.
"Who'd ever think of doing this?" the Muar-born muses, adding: "Nobody grows up dreaming of doing makeup for the dead."
Her father was a watermelon wholesaler, delivering truckloads of fruit to markets. Her mother worked as a babysitter. Like many Asian parents, they dreamt of a stable future for their daughter — something steady, safe, and sensible.
"Of course, my father wanted me to do accounts. You know lah... Chinese must go study maths!" she says, breaking into laughter.
So, she chose the practical route. She took up a London Chamber of Commerce and Industry (LCCI) certificate and later joined the banking world. "I listened to my father, of course, and did as he wanted," recounts Ong.
Did she enjoy it?
"Not really," she admits. "I wasn't keen on dealing with people. But you know how the financial world is… it's all about dealing with customers."
She'd always planned to resign after a few years. But when her son — born premature — fell seriously ill, it became the wake-up call she needed. "It made me realise life's too short," she shares, adding: "I wanted to do something that sparked real interest, something that meant something to me."
The memory of her late cousin never left her. It nudged her toward a path she hadn't considered before — one that led her to a short cosmetology course focused on working with the deceased. After seven years in banking, she finally took the plunge and made the life-changing decision to leave.
"To be honest, I wanted a job that was flexible," she confesses, continuing: "One where people wouldn't kacau (disturb) me. I didn't want to deal with anyone anymore and this felt like the perfect fit."
Her first lessons came from an unexpected source — an uncle who worked at a funeral parlour near a paper joss stick shop. The job connection, ironically, came through her former banking bosses.
"Back then, there were no women doing this. I was the only one," she recalls. The early days were tough. The tools were basic — screwdrivers, cotton packed into the body. "I can't blame them," she says. "They were blue collar workers and honestly, they were very kind. But I knew I had to learn more."
Determined to refine her craft, Ong travelled abroad for training. She studied mortuary restorative art in Japan, embalming in the Philippines, and attended workshops in Singapore and Taiwan.
She also learnt from forensic doctors and even mastered the complex technique of stitching. For two years, she devoted herself to learning the skills — and officially entered the field in 2012.
Ong's father was aghast when she gave up a stable, well-paying job to work with the dead. "I think my father just wanted me to stand on my own two feet and not rely on anyone," she shares quietly.
But after the shock wore off, her father came around. He told her to be careful and to follow proper procedures, like wearing a mask and gloves when working with the deceased. "I'm very grateful he eventually supported my decision," she says, adding: "His advice was actually very practical and helped me stay safe."
At first, she only charged a minimum fee for her services in the village. One of her earliest "clients" was a young man who died after being hit by a drunk driver. "I remember doing his makeup and ensuring he had a trendy hairstyle that was popular then," she recalls.
Over the years, her makeup techniques have become more precise and specialised, shaped by hands-on experience and formal training. They are, she explains, nothing like the techniques used on the living.
"For the living, makeup usually begins with water-based products or toner," she explains, adding: "But for the deceased, I use oils like baby oil or olive oil to moisturise the skin."
She explains that when a person dies, the body no longer produces oil. Without natural moisture, the skin becomes extremely dry and fragile, making it prone to tearing. The skin also loses its natural colour. "It turns yellowish. So you have to neutralise the tone before applying any makeup," she explains.
Depending on the condition of the body, the entire preparation process can take anywhere from two to nine hours — a task that requires patience, precision and care.
FIGHTING PREJUDICE
Despite the service she provides — helping families find closure and dignity in death — Ong has often faced prejudice because of her work. "It's not been easy dealing with judgement," she admits.
She recalls a moment at the wet market when her son, then just 3 years old, was with her. A woman made a passing comment about her job being "smelly and dirty". Ong had to gently explain to her son that working with the dead doesn't make you unclean. "We give people dignity. There's nothing dirty about that," she asserts.
Even joyful occasions like weddings make her hesitant. Ong is often wary about attending, worried that others might see her presence as bad luck. "I usually remind my friends in advance that this is what I do. I'd ask them, 'Are you okay with me coming?'" she says, adding: "Because let's be honest, someone's going to ask what I do for a living, and I don't want to put them in an awkward spot."
Over the years, Ong has worked on all kinds of bodies. Some arrive intact, while others are badly damaged or already decomposing. Each case is different and each one tells a story. She has seen death in many forms, from the peaceful passing of the old to the violent end of the young.
Some of the most heartbreaking cases involve suicides and fatal accidents. But none affect her as deeply as the death of a child. That, she says, is the hardest. As a mother, it hits too close to home.
But Ong doesn't dwell in sorrow. For her, death isn't something to fear. She approaches it with a quiet ease, almost cheerful in her honesty. "It's part of life," she remarks, shrugging her shoulders. "I just happen to work with the part most people avoid."
She doesn't get emotional with every case. What grounds her is the work — restoring a face, calming a family, giving someone the chance to see their loved one for the last time.
"For me, that's more important than anything else," she insists.
Each month, Ong tends to about 20 to 30 individuals, offering makeup services that range from RM580 to RM2,000, depending on the condition and care required. These charges cover only the makeup work, not funeral arrangements or other services.
But there are times she doesn't charge at all. Some families are struggling, overwhelmed by grief and financial burden. And when they reach out, she steps in without hesitation.
It's a calling she doesn't take lightly.
After all, it was her cousin brother's death that started all this — the one whose face she couldn't bear to see. That memory never left her. And now, years later, every time she steadies her hands over a lifeless face, she thinks of him.
"I couldn't help him then," she says quietly, "but now, I can help others say goodbye."
So, death may come, marking the end of a story. It's a final chapter — and through her work, Ong helps write it with care so that those left behind can turn the page with peace.

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