When I’m fifteen, I secretly buy a tube of lipstick. I dab a little on. She notices. She summons my father and, with him as a witness, declares that I look like a prostitute, and that I’m ridiculous.
I didn’t mind looking like a prostitute. In fact, I took it as a compliment: I could be seductive, despite my flaws. But I was ashamed of being ridiculous. I didn’t even get that I had misapplied a bit of makeup.
photo © https://unsplash.com/photos/VMnOvYo9fVY