I love lipstick. No, you don’t understand. I love lipstick. In a more tolerable world, I would marry my lipstick collection and sign a pre-nup just to prove my undying fidelity. Should I die, my version of heaven would be an infinite beauty counter with Benedict Cumberbatch telling me what lipstick goes with my autumn wardrobe.
Most of my pre-pubescence was spent rifling through my mom’s makeup collection to fish out the reds and pinks in a sea of earth-toned lipstick. I would be scandalized at the sight of myself in these bombastic colors, yet have the gall to take pre-Selfie Era selfies in varying serious expressions. I usually did all of this, by the way, while still wearing my school uniform, because I would be too lazy to get started on my homework. Twelve-year-old Marga must’ve thought, who needs to be a model student when you can look like an actual model instead? (How very telling of my poor choices later in life.)
But my love for makeup never extended beyond my personal enjoyment—I was, in a way, hiding in my own proverbial closet, worried that outing myself meant that I was dying to look like a harlot. Only when college rolled around did I become more open to wearing lipstick in public. And I swam to the deep end right away: my first official tube is a now-discontinued Revlon Matte Lipstick called Wine Not, a shade of red as dark and frightening as my soul.
These days, I’m so used to wearing ridiculous shades of lipstick that I don’t even bat an eyelash when people stare at my purple/neon pink/orange mouth. My lipstick has become an irrevocable part of me, and honestly, I quite enjoy looking like a lunatic. Just don’t tell anyone—they might call me crazy. (These people are right.)