Yesterday, I noticed that my lipstick was eroded to a stub of coral red. It hurt when I ran it over my lips.
Today I was at the drugstore to replenish my trusted color: “752 Classic Wine” by L’Oreal which ranked sixth among the best lipstick brands in the world. Who knew that someone out there cared to rank lipstick? How did they rank lipstick? By its staying power? By the marks it left on wine glasses? By its gloss? Its wet look on the lips? By the way it felt to the kisser or to the kissed? Or to both?
A man will never understand how a woman of today may never be seen anywhere without lipstick in her purse and on her mouth. My mother could not grasp the fashion statement—or pronounce fashion-related words—until the day she died. She fussed over grooming but she looked askance at lipstick.
In the India of the 70s and 80s, especially in conservative Chennai, lipstick was a sign of wantonness. At the sight of lip color on me, my mother’s mouth curved downward. I remember how she used to watch me from her designated spot on the sofa as I flitted about the house, a girl of 21 with a red stain on her lips.
“Come here,” she said. She didn’t broach the subject of coquetry implied by my mouth, not yet, anyway. She told me to turn around so she could take in the shock of my hip-length hair held by a barrette. She whined that it was windblown. “Why don’t you braid it?” she asked. “It looks like hay. No coconut oil. That’s what all this new-fangled stuff called shyamboo does to beautiful hair.” Then she got up. She walked around to examine my face. “You need more talcum powder on your nose.” Finally, her eyes swooped down to my lips. “High society lady,” she tsk-tsked. “Look at you! Liftick and all.”
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