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Oh, let's see, I was 6 or 7 and over a friend's house playing. We found one of her mother's lipsticks in the bathroom, a beautiful bright red, glossy like plastic. This being mid-'60's, lipstick was made with that wonderful formula that *stained* your lips, and didn't rub off. (Why can't I get some of that now?) It smelled like waxy perfume.
Of course, we put it on. It was exquisite.
My pal's mother became hysterical when she saw us, and my friend and I spent the next hour rubbing our mouths with a soapy washcloth until our lips were raw and hurting, while getting screamed at. She was afraid to return me to my mother looking like a "tart".
I repeatedly told her my mother wouldn't care, indeed, she'd already taken me shopping for nail polish and other cosmetics. It did no good.
My mother practiced a certain kind of benign child rearing technique, which included letting me make my own decisions and do whatever I wanted, as long as I didn't get hurt. Not only did this suit me fine, but it was all I'd known.
I was traumatized by this lipstick incident.
Decades later, sometimes I think about that horrible woman, whose name I don't even remember.
Except for a 4 and a half year period of frequent trumpet playing, ages 13 - 17, I've worn lipstick EVERY SINGLE DAY. ALL DAY.
I still get a tiny thrill every morning, noon and night when I pull the tube open, and put it on.
I have one thing to say to her.
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