The last time I wore lipstick, it felt as though I were applying cement to my mouth, which makes sense as it was a very cheap Dollar Store purchase. I was attending a Halloween party, dressing up was required – ugh, but okay, I’ll play along. The theme was The Sopranos. I went as Tony Soprano’s dad’s goomar, Fran Felstein, played in the series by Polly Bergen because why not go for someone of mature age? This choice on my part was a deep cut into that classic series, which I loved – but the dressing up was a challenge – one I met by covering myself with a wig, a very lush fur coat (a gift from Johnny Boy Soprano, I assumed), fishnets, and a form fitting black dress, further adorned with feathers at the hem and the end of the sleeves.
Shoot me now.
The lipstick was dead red, meaning a kind of red so unflattering to one’s coloring – or what coloring, at my age, I have left in my skin (not much TBH). Anyway, I could not wait to get that shit – and the cheap-ass foundation I also put on, along with false eyelashes and etc. – off my face. Ick. But this isn’t far from where I have always been on make-up: it clogs the pores, it inadvertently gets on your clothes, it’s expensive and a waste of hard-earned money to boot, the containers are germ magnets, and using it, applying it, removing it, all that jazz takes precious time out of my day, time I would much rather spend reading, writing, fucking, cooking, doing yoga, or eating – among other actual pleasures.
That said, I have two contemporary friends, peers, who are always after me to lipstick up, to y’know, play the feminine messaging game. Ladies – no. Have you met me? I am not interested. The image of poor Tammy Faye Bakker comes to mind – along with a panoply of primarily 1980s females who were consistently over-made-up, overdressed, over perfumed, with over-the-top hair. These women were just over, in every way, demonstrating a hyper-feminine, performative version of being female I could not get behind, although – again, in the 80s – I tried, if half-heartedly.
I loved playing with make-up as a child, emphasis on playing. Having to put on lip-stick daily as armor or – whatever – ick. My grandmother was the most beautiful woman I ever knew, because I loved her – and while I’m pretty sure she owned a compact and might have owned lipstick as well, I never saw her use either one, nor were either of them obviously applied if she did.
Oddly, I suppose, for someone who went into the business of show, make-up has always felt to me like a kind of cheating, a disguise. Fine for playing roles on stage, but afterward – out of the powerful lights that can wash facial features away – no and no and no, thank you. It felt and feels unclean, unnecessary, and when my friends – who I know mean well – get after me to put lipstick on, or something, I give them my best answer in the moment, which is ‘No’. Or, ‘Why’? Or, more to the point, ‘I don’t own a lip stick, although my trusty lip gloss is always at hand.’ Clear and without a hint of sparkle or tint, it’s all I need. It, and moisturizer. And, okay, okay, a spritz of Chanel #5, because that scent is sublime, and I love it.
Female drag of the kind Tammy Faye performed harms women, including Tammy – who died (a few details below) at the very young age of 65 (italicization mine as I am and will remain 39 but 65 seems uncomfortably close at hand – wink, wink, nod, nod). Furthermore, just as the saying goes ‘no one on their death bed thinks, “Gosh, I should’ve spent more time in the office’, I would like to propose the following as another death-bed truism: ‘no one on their death-bed thinks, “Gosh, I should’ve spent more time putting on make-up, doing my hair, getting my seams straight, perfecting my foundation garments, removing body hair, losing weight, etc., etc., etc.”
The list of things we ask women to do in the performance of femaleness is, sadly, endless. Which is kinda the point, ain’t it? Let’s keep those ladies off-kilter with impossible beauty standards, busy with endless bullshit, while we plunder the earth. Ah, the patriarchy! Let’s smash that shit.
I just did a semi-deep dive on poor Tammy Faye Bakker, later Messner. JHFC. What a tumultuous life. At one point both her ex-husband and current husband were in jail for various schemes, frauds, and criminally negligent – mostly financial – behaviors. Wow. Girls. Ladies. Less goop, more books. #NerdsRule
From Tammy’s wiki page: “Despite her background in Christian Fundamentalism, Messner became a gay icon after parting from PTL, appearing in Gay Pride marches with figures such as Lady Bunny and Bruce Villanch. Unlike many American Christian fundamentalists, she “had long refused to denounce homosexuals” and publicly expressed compassion toward, and urged support for Americans with HIV/AIDS when it was still a much-feared and unknown disease. She was benevolently referred to as “the ultimate drag queen,” and said in her last interview with Larry King that, “When I went – when we lost everything, it was the gay people that came to my rescue, and I will always love them for that.”
Messner’s 11 years with cancer were highly publicized. She was first diagnosed with colon cancer in March 1996, but later revealed she had endured bleeding for a year out of embarrassment at the prospect of seeing a male doctor. The disease went into remission by the end of that year. (Tammy died in 2007)