Truth to tell, that lipstick survey — the one that says lipstick is, well, over — has been bumming me out. I love the stuff. But this wasn’t always the case. When I was a little girl in the ’80s watching my mother slather bright pinks across her cheeks and perky blues over her lids, I hassled her. “Moo-o-o-oom,” I’d whine, “I like your face the way it is.” But she didn’t leave the house without putting her face on first. I carried my staunch anti-makeup stance almost entirely through high school, only breaking down occasionally for a little goth-inspired black eyeliner and mascara. Makeup was part of “The Man.” It was the enemy, keeping women down and stuff, by convincing them they’d never be good or pretty enough without another bottle of goopy stuff.
Then I got married. Keep reading »