Attitube

As much as I love my mother, she and I couldn’t be more diametrically opposed. Of course, this has provided a great many conflicts between us over the years, but luckily for us, we’ve also been able to share just as many belly laughs stemming from these great divides. In fact, it’s been a playful joke between us that she, not my father, should be the one to take a DNA test to make absolutely sure I am her daughter.

One of the key differences between us is in how we define our individual sense of style. There’s no question that my mother, a former seamstress, knows how to select garments based on quality construction and materials. It must also be mentioned that my mother can intuitively understand fashion “rules” – like how to match prints and pair statement accessories with various ensembles. But, while her expertise in this area cannot be denied, at the end of the day my mother is decidedly NOT the unabashed Glamazon of Glitz that I proclaim to be by any stretch. Indeed, another running joke we have between us always finds its place in our conversations as we are out shoe shopping, based on one fateful day many years ago when, after getting separated at our local DSW, my mother, sans shame and cheery-faced with glee, rounded the corner of my aisle and excitedly asked, “What do you think of THESE?!?” Upon looking down at her feet, I admit that I did a hard blink to make sure I wasn’t seeing a mirage, considering that the bulky, wide, thick-strapped, rubberized, and faux-leather-detailed open-toed sandal she proudly sported looked like something a “Lawrence of Arabia” cast member stole from the desert-staged set. Without a moment of hesitation more, I proclaimed, “Oh my God, Mom, put those back immediately! They look like primitive man shoes!” To this day, my mother never fails to promise me that she’ll keep a watchful eye out for any other shoe of that ilk that may tempt her as we cross the carpeted threshold of DSW’s glass doored entryway.

But this simple joy isn’t about shoes. It’s actually about the one thing that my mother and I have always had in common, even when it came to our fashion choices. And that, my friends, is a bold, BOLD, red lip. A red, of course, that works for YOU, which means any undertone of hue will do.

Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick, and pull yourself together.

– Elizabeth Taylor

I don’t care what anybody says: I was devastated when the female populace began losing their minds for the whole nude lip craze. Frankly, it also lasted way too long. Don’t get me wrong, I own quite a number of tamer shades in my lipstick arsenal, but they won’t prime my pucker for screaming battle cries across the lines at my enemies or blowing kisses into oncoming traffic like a true crimson is meant to do.

When I first crack open the case of a fresh tube of molded, waxy, blood-colored pigment and gently twist the bottom dial to surge her into the beckoning light of my LED-lit mirrored vanity, the attitude I instantly possess can only be tantamount to what Michelangelo must have felt when the Pope first commissioned him to paint the world’s first-ever likeness of God in the Sistine Chapel: “I got this, bitches.”

Fierce, unapologetic, lock-n-load, timeless, ultra-fem, joyful, badass, buckle up buttercup, pay attention to me, you don’t own me, Yas Queen, slay all day, classic, flirty, bossy, love me, fear me…RED. FUCKING. LIPS.

MUAH.