Adventures in Life-Changing Lipstick

or, we are always in the process of becoming.

I used to write about lipstick.

To be fair, I’ve written about a lot of things over the course of my career, but lipstick was a big one. Aside from sheer gratitude to get to write about anything for money, I always felt torn over this. On the one hand, I did enjoy it (both the lipstick and the writing). But I didn’t want to contribute to the larger voice that peddles items as solutions.

Trust me when I tell you that lipstick will not grant you a new identity, a better credit score, less anxiety, more courage. (I know from experience.) This is true even if the name of the shade is something like “Lady Danger” or “Fearless” or “Never Says Regrettable Shit at Parties.”

There is a feeling that lurks in the rearview mirror and stirs whenever I encounter old pieces of writing, forgotten text messages, the assorted detritus of former incarnations. It goes something like this:

It was never a lie, it just wasn’t the whole truth.

*

A friend recently got a manicure. This is truly a nonevent, significant only in that said friend is a never-gets-a-manicure, short-clean-nails type of person. When I met her for coffee, her fingertips were long and lacquered, filed to sharp points, like a glamorous Nosferatu.

“It’s like I’ve been going through life as a different person,” she laughed. “I feel like a badass opening doors. Every time I type something, it’s…” she paused, searching for the right word, “spicier.”

Countless studies find that small, superficial changes — lipstick among them — can lead to a boost in mood and confidence. Wearing red, in any form, has the power to impact psychological, emotional, and cognitive decision making. Wearing similar shades as other people, a la team uniforms, can increase feelings of trust.

Perhaps there is something to be said for slipping into a costume for the role we’d like to play, or the experience we’d like to have. While it cannot change the world (I wish), it can potentially impact your day, and that’s not nothing.

*

Many times in my career, I’ve been encouraged to pitch haircare stories — about scalp elixirs and blow dryers and dry shampoos — because hair products are a perennial bestseller. I reflected on this a lot over the last couple years, as I was increasingly surrounded by friends and family members who lost their hair due to chemo. For the rest of my days, caring about a hair routine will never not strike me as a tremendous privilege.

And yet. I’ve seen the power in dyeing one’s recently regrown hair a bright color. Or getting a tattoo to commemorate a profound experience. Or shaving one’s head in an act of liberation.

Context is everything. Sometimes, what looks superficial can be nothing short of spiritual.

*

Under closer inspection, what offends me isn’t the idea of item-as-transformation-tool, but rather being told how to transform. Maybe I don’t want to be “A List” or don a “Bikini So Teeny” (two popular nail polish shades, a category where the naming is even more deranged than lipstick). Maybe I want a nap.

Though marketers would like us to forget it, expression — the outer display of thoughts, feelings, and essences — originates from within.

There can be a subtle intelligence in making small external shifts, especially when they belie a larger internal one. All appearances to the contrary, there is wisdom behind cutting (instantly regrettable) breakup bangs. This is my metamorphosis. As it grows out, so do I.

*

Though I used to write about lipstick, I haven’t worn it in months. This has not been a bold, red season. But today I swiped some on (shade “Paris Stroll,” which bore no resemblance to my day) and went about my mundane tasks. It felt a bit like running into a long-ago friend, where you like them, really you do, but you have nothing left in common and the conversation is achingly stilted.

While I can’t say it made a discernible difference in my mood or my day or my life, the lipstick did afford me something else. Standing before the mirror, I caught a glimpse of myself, past and future. An alternate view. A reminder that we are always in the process of becoming.

The scene outside my window is downright frigid yet dotted with signs of spring. A crocus here, a daffodil there, the buds of cherry blossoms teasing their reveal. These early bloomers, I’ve decided, are nature’s breakup bangs, its hastily purchased leather jacket, its bold lipstick with a stupid name. A small tell signaling a grand shift.

Spring — literal and figurative, as these things go — always unfolds in due time. Sometimes, our job is simply to let go and trust in the timing of a bloom.

“It makes sense, but I don’t know what a crocus is,” said my proofreader AKA spouse. In case you also didn’t know, this determined little flower friend is a crocus. May its wisdom guide us.