An old friend of mine back East was recently diagnosed with cancer and had to undergo some pretty awful surgery almost immediately.
A few days later, after she was discharged from the hospital, she texted a selfie to the group chat. She was glowing.
“So happy to see the sun this morning,” she texted. “It lifted my spirits. I put on some gloss and am ready for the day!”
A little lipstick has a power all its own.
A week or so later, my friend texted again to ask if we could do a Zoom happy hour after her first chemo treatment.
It felt like the pandemic all over again, seeing all of my friends’ faces lined up in neat little rows of “Brady Bunch” squares. But the amazing thing was seeing my friend, looking calm and resolved in the face of a devastating diagnosis. And there was the lip gloss, too. That little eff-you to the big C. As if to say, You might be coming for me, but I’m ready to take you on.
Looking at her on that Zoom, the word that came to mind was grace, which coincidentally is her daughter’s name. I just googled it and the definition that came up described it as “an undeserved gift.” Not how I’d ever imagine a cancer diagnosis. Especially one that involves the removal of a bunch of internal organs and the impending loss of your gorgeous hair.
This woman is an icon in our friend group, our own personal Wonder Woman, our adventure muse. A tiny, ripped superhero whose petite frame, clear blue eyes and long, blonde locks belie sheer brute strength — inside and out.
She’s the one who was a single mom for 13 years until she met her husband. Who competed in international adventure races where she did things like run up all 1,860 steps of the Empire State Building and then rappel down from the roof. She’s the one who finished the Leadville 100 mountain bike race after “training sessions” that involved a night-time pub-crawl on bikes where we all dressed up like Elvis. The one who pushed her babies in a stroller while she raced marathons. Who moved out of suburbia to a farmette so she could grow her own veggies and raise chickens and llamas and goats. Who bought a 1950s canned-ham camper and taught herself how to completely renovate it.
Her profile pic on my phone shows her riding a vintage Vespa scooter wearing a hot pink feather boa and sporting a hot pink lip. Powerful in every way.
My earliest memories of the power of lipstick involve my mom getting ready for a night out with my father. I’d sit on the toilet in her bathroom and watch her put on her makeup. Foundation, eye liner, shadow, blush. Though to me, she always looked incomplete until she put on her lipstick.
A few years ago, I had skin cancer surgery that left a hole in my nose that had to be fixed by a plastic surgeon. Soon afterward, I took an Instagram selfie. My face was swollen and bruised. Definitely not a Tinder profile pic. I worried that I was going to end up looking like a patchwork quilt, or Coraline the corpse bride from “The Nightmare Before Christmas.”
My mother said, “Put on some lipstick. You’ll feel better.” So right before I snapped that selfie, I opened up a tube of Mac Ruby Woo lipstick and put it on. My two black eyes and a row of ugly black stitches across my swollen nose were no match for my bright red lips. As usual, my mom was right.
Today, I asked my mom about the lipstick thing.
“I don’t know,” she mused. “I think it’s just a little sign that tells the world you care about yourself.”
Even now, in her 80s, she’s still putting it on. Bold scarlet; it doesn’t give a damn. The color of Valentine’s Day, of passion, courage and a powerful energy that inspires action.
I think about my friend. And the power of lipstick as a little gift you give to yourself. A symbol of grace in moments deserved and undeserved. To tell the world, I want you to see me as I see myself. I’m still here. I am alive.
And in this moment, that’s all that matters.