The first time I tried on makeup I was six years old and my older sister decided to cover me in sickly raspberry-colored glittery lipstick following the “more is better” mantra and the ethos, “it’s not on the lips, it’s around the lips.” As I was presented to my parents, like a trussed up lamb to the slaughter beamed in from Laboratoire Garnier, Paris, the reaction was resoundingly reticent. Things turned into a Pinter play. My father was quietly horrified, refusing to talk for about six hours, and the incident was largely ignored by my mother who retired to the kitchen to gently throttle a metre of pastry. In the silent judgment that followed, I picked up on the vibe: boys don’t wear makeup. Clearly, I wasn’t born with it, whatever the Maybelline advert may say. Read more at The Guardian.