I miss wearing lipstick. Does that sound feminist (or anti-feminist)—wanting to alter or enhance my looks? I know it’s trivial, considering the Covid World we’re struggling to exit.
Nevertheless, lipstick is the finishing touch to a canvas. And that canvas is my face. Pre-Covid, I would apply base make-up on my chin, cheeks forehead, etc. A slash of a contouring stick is dabbed (not rubbed!) under the cheek bones. You-Tube make-up tutorials swear this gives the illusion of thinness (envision Gisele Bündchen here). A caress of blush/rouge on the apple of the cheeks give me a naturally healthy glow. Either that or I look like Bette Davis, circa 1962–Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. I even have a make-up stick that I rub into the area above my eye brows! I have no idea what this accomplishes, other than less money in my bank account. Eye shadow, for me, has gone the way of the shoulder pad. I stroke mascara on my eyelashes and pause before the piéce de résistance!
I dramatically open my lipstick drawer. I mean all things related to lips: lipsticks, glosses and tints, lip shimmers and pastes, lip pencils and liners, lip crayons and filers, even lip masks and sugar rubs for maintenance. Date range of items is 2004-present. Except the Dr. Pepper lip smacker. That is circa 1979! No item ever gets tossed. One never knows when Exotic Raisin Mole or Cheery Cherry Chip Lips will be the antidote to a dreary mouth.
Christmas 2019, my older sister gives me a rectangular white tin box from Avon. You know—Avon, the cosmetic company that has been around for more than a century that brings beauty to every woman in America. For those of you that don’t know, Avon has employed saleswomen for decades that go door to door to offer their product to whomever will open that door. An aside here: my mother disliked the Avon lady. Well, that’s not true. Mom is a farmer, farmer’s wife and mother to four. She had no time to sit and peruse the glitzy Avon catalog and play with the samples the Avon lady brought to entice. But my ten-year-old sister and I adored all this fancy stuff, so we’d always let the lady in the house and go find Mom, whether she was on a tractor in the corn field or hiding out downstairs.
So, January 2020. Here I am with a rainbow array of 50 itty, bitty trial-sized lipsticks in a white tin box labeled “Mistletoe Minis.” I can wear a different color every day to work, to dinner, to the grocery store! The names made my lips quiver. Lollipop Lavender, Rougy Rosy Red, Misunderstood Merlot. Needless to say, I could go on and on forty-seven more times like this. As 2020 was ushered in, my lips were all dressed up with no place to go. For the remainder of the year, I did embrace the no make-up look. I mean, what was the point? Huey, my cat, appeared nonchalant whether I had make-up on or not to watch Netflix with him.
My lipstick tin has been sitting on the counter, collecting a year’s worth of dust. Surely, we are just a few months away from disposing of our masks, right? When I say a few months, I know it could be fall, or winter even.
In the meantime, I grab a tissue. I methodically wipe away the year’s worth of neglect and ease the tin open. Purple Party Passion, Sinfully Sinnamon, Raunchy Rust, and Marilyn Monroe Red greet my eyes. Finally, I spy an appropriate name for the evening, Cat’s Meow. I scrutinize my naked lips in the mirror. I bring the waxy stick to them and color like a six-year-old drawing a picture for her Mother’s birthday. I smile at myself. It is the little things in life after all, isn’t it?
“Huey, what’s on Netflix tonight?”
