Cabaret Carousel, Razor Stiletto 2007. Photo by Jacqui Bellamy

I think it started during my waitering days, when I'd wake up around 9:30 or 10:00 in the morning after a long shift the night before.  I looked horrible and I needed to go down to the corner shop for coffee and cream, and I craved a newspaper.  I stared at myself in the mirror and I thought, How do I make this face look less - tired?

So I put some lipstick on.

And it made me look awake.  My messy hair suddenly held more meaning, perhaps even looked deliberate.

This was for the sake of those people I might pass on the street, of course, but it was more, oh so much more for me.  Suddenly I felt good about walking down to the corner, grabbing the paper, a container of half and half, a pound of coffee and a box of raspberry Pop-Tarts and taking my rightful place in line.

Yes there were dark circles under my eyes but who cared?  I had lipstick on.

Nothing Jerry Hall-ish, no reds or oranges, more subtle, brown tones.  No frostiness for the early morning riser, more of a matte texture - and never lip liner.

So when the guy behind me in line felt the need to make that comment about how I managed to have incorporated all the ingredients crucial to a nutritious breakfast, I just looked back and flashed him my lip-sticked smile and proceeded to the cash.

And I hadn't even had my coffee yet.

I now and then have conversations with a neighbor who is fifteen years younger than I am.  We aren't close in age, but our children are, and so we seem to share similar days, similar stories.

She wears make-up - powder, cover-up, mascara, eye shadow.  She says her skin can be blotchy and red and that she is self-conscious of this.  I told her,
"I love lipstick."

She looked funny at me and said, "That's the only thing I don't wear."

So then I was self-conscious.  I thought, Have I shown my age?  My mother always wears lipstick and she was born in nineteen twenty-eight.  Am I glaringly X to my neighbor's Y Generation?  I felt silly.  For days after, every time I began to put lipstick on, I saw crow's feet and a clear ignorance of the indie music scene.

But then, after a couple of swipes, I'd look at my reflection and I'd smile.  Color was suddenly in the face of a woman who'd been up reading for three hours during the night, or had worried ridiculously all week about her son's recent birthday party plans or her upcoming mammogram.

All erased with a quick slapping-on of mocha chenille or chocaholic.

Works for me.  And there lies the key, doesn't it?  Whatever works for you.

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