"Oh, once in a while. Not much. I'm not at the moment."
"I can tell." Gee, thanks Gram. "You should really wear some lipstick once in a while, you know. Do you ever wear lipstick?"
"No. I haven't got any."
With that my Grandma dragged my off to the washroom and opened her basket, the one that always fascinated me when I was but a child. She handed me a light pink shade. Once she'd admired that she told me I could wipe it off and try another. After trying five shades she decided I should have one, and narrowed it down to a deep shade, subtle if applied lightly.
"And now let's powder your nose."
She's from a different era, my Grandma. One that delights in lipstick and stockings. Girls that remember the rationing of the war, the hippis of the '60s, and the silly acid washed denim age that I was born into. They did the twist and they prayed in school. They were teachers, nurses, secretaries and housewives.
I'm not a lipstick girl. I'm not even a mascara girl. I'm sure the woman from my decade will never give up on this messy, clumpy black paste. Maybe they'll demand that they're liberalized granddaughters paint their eyelashes black. (I speak for Canadians. If you're from too far south feel free to continue with your lip liner and non-matching colour)
Somehow I having a tube of lipstick in my pocket and a bit of colour on my lips made me feel like a lady. I don't think I'll ever signify glamour but maybe, once in a while, I'll tuck it in my bag for an evening out.