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All For The Love of Lipstick
I had morphed from a tomboy who played outside with cousins to a teenager who wouldn’t leave home without makeup. But I found out you can do both.
My first lipstick disaster occurred when I left a tube of Lasting Kiss in the pocket of my white pants. After churning through the wash and tumbling through the dryer, Lasting Kiss was a shadow of its former self, but my load of whites was forever splotched and ruined.
The first time lipstick struck terror into my heart, I was reading and drinking coffee while my 18-month-old napped. Only she wasn’t napping. She emerged, Frankenstein-like, from the upstairs bedroom. Covered in blood.
I screamed. She grinned.
It was horrifying until I realized she wasn’t covered in blood. She had been in my lipstick. Her face and head were smeared with Red Revival.
The first time lipstick embarrassed me, I was dancing. I hid a tube in my bra. My sister, who is 46DD, suggested it. “You won’t have to worry about a purse when you go dancing if you stow what you need between your boobs.”
