Lipstick by Ryland J. Kayin Lee (2005)

I was walking in, Missy was walking out, but we stalled when she glared at my lips. I was startled. I didn’t know Missy but recognized her from a class I must have taken at some point here in Corvallis High School. I had listened in on her clique once and heard her name. I don’t know if she recognized me, but she growled out, “What are you wearing?” I didn’t respond instantly but then wanted to say, “Why not? I like to.” I’m not sure if I said this. Let me try to remember.

This was seven years ago, an afternoon on which I wore lipstick. I was a freshman at the time and wore ragged jeans and unadorned shirts. I loved wearing lipstick, loved it much more than dyeing my hair green or red or impressing the girls. I’ve usually used blue moon, a purple named dark orchid, a brown named meltdown, or a scarlet shade. But that afternoon, it was definitely blue. I had missed a physics assignment and was visiting the lab during open hours. I didn’t care much for the subject, didn’t pay attention much to the way movements were supposed to occur, or the way in which certain principles ruled existence. So I had an assignment to make up, it happened to be a day I wore blue lipstick, and I walked into the open lab. I was heading in through the door, and Missy was heading toward the door to leave.

We brushed up against each other, and when we were that close, we paused and examined each other. Missy had black hair, thick but bushier and slightly paler than my mom’s hair, waves of dark brush that rollicked around the long, Spanish bone structure that supported her cheeks, eyes, and forehead. Remembering her, I want to stroke her temples and feel how soft they were, or soften them if they were tense shells.

When I took in Missy’s face, she must have cast her gaze down over my masculine body. She saw my arms with curves of muscle starts, my white tank top, my growing legs under blue jeans, my large sneakers; and then back to my face, to the long eyelashes, the long nose, and then to the curve of my lips. She sneered, and scoffed at the image with a toss of her black hair, a rolling of her white and blue eyes. I admired the red sheen on her lips as she spoke. She said, “What is that on your lips?” When I responded, I think I sounded as scornful as she did.

Her eyes broke into my skull, and they flashed through the storm-covered knots of my brain. She was pissed. I stood there like a fool, thinking she wanted to slam her fist into my face. Her fists were planted on her hips. Her lips touched up with red were perked out like she was ready to spit. She growled out her question again, “And what are you doing? Tell me that.” She lifted up a fist, pointed to my face with a finger, and raised her right eyebrow like a member of the inquisition or the CIA.

I just wasn’t answering. I couldn’t decide what was right. I wanted to affirm myself, nothing wrong here. I also didn’t think I could counteract the fury of this teenage American goddess ready to knock me out with her fists and her eyes. But I said something with a little noncommittal tone, “Nothing wrong with it. I like it.”

Her lips were clenched as she departed the classroom. I turned and watched her bare legs pump out of the lab. I laughed. She turned back and threw a wad of crumpled worksheet at me.

Keeping watch over the open lab was Frederick, a teacher assistant with a crop of hair and narrow glasses perched just over his nostrils. Before the blackboard, he sat at the desk where gadgets and papers were scattered and piled up. He was sniffing at the steam that rose from his mug of coffee. He had been watching the whole exchange. He glanced up and there was a turn to his lips, a glint in his eyes. I imagined he was amused with this student communication, the clash in values. He smirked; I smiled in return; we went about our business.

I’d wanted to ask him, what was that? What’s wrong with this? But he just lingered briefly over the scene, Missy stalked off, and I was left hovering in surprise. I began to work on the assignment. I kept frowning, biting my lips, smearing my teeth with the blue stain of cosmetics. The shade, blue moon was on my mouth until the last hour of school. Then I entered the men’s room and cleansed my lips of the color. I’ve grown accustomed to rubbing my lips with tap water at any available faucets. I never grew entirely accustomed to blue moon or any other shade.

I like telling this story. It fits with my image of high school. I remember the school for the small cliques, the attitudes, and the difficulty of relating to others; I might call them the years in which we are all outcasts, when we effectuated small, crazy gestures of rebellion. I imagined gangsters or jocks smashing in my lips, girls spitting at my face, girls laughing at the glint of my stained teeth, girls slapping my cheeks into the same stinging red as lipstick. After escaping our scenarios of high school, we become adults and lead real lives.

After high school, I occasionally wore lipstick on campus, at least for my freshman year. I wore it in Europe too, a few times at least. I wasn’t brave enough to wear it very long, but to apply lipstick and sport re-colored lips through the open air was tempting. Two friends bought me tiny opaque tubes and silver tubes of brown, blue, and red lipstick during my first year in community college. Then we flew to Europe at the end of the summer. We started in London and traveled west. They were a lesbian couple, and they were both beautiful and emotional. They were friends who understood the joys of wearing lipstick. Emily would talk of wearing suits and ball gowns and dancing in castles. I would imagine her piano fingers and lips in a graceful flurry through such scenes. With a flick of her short, orange crop of hair, she became less sullen and shy than how I usually thought of her. Her lover would talk of the murmur of trees and worms in the earth, would braid her mass of groomed hair, and would gaze down on the river and waterfall below a bridge in downtown Bath with huge, brown eyes. Sometimes I felt Emily imagined she was married to a movie star.

We stayed in Bath, England for a week. We camped up on the hills for two nights, near the sheep, looking over the splendor of buildings in the evening and exploring the ruins of a graveyard. We stayed in Bath for several days more. During that time, I frequented a department store. It was the cosmetics section that kept drawing me back. I would use a rented bike to ride over hills, through woods, along the river on narrow trails, back to the heart of Bath. From the hostel we now stayed at, a smaller sort of castle visited by ghosts, the cosmetics section was ten minutes by bike. The first visit, I was with my friends, and we explored the various shops tucked into the parallel lengths of building. We ducked into a corner pair of double doors, our reflections glittering across the sun-lit panes of glass. The department store sprawled out. I considered purchasing gloves, I had lost mine again, but we walked ahead and weaved in among display cases, stands, and racks of cosmetics. There was a woman attending the counter there. She looked about the same age as us, early twenties, and she watched with a finger tapping her cheek as we moved among her section. I trailed my fingers over the display of lipsticks, over the plastic containers, while my friends hovered over something else. I plucked one up and looked at the label.

The attendant appeared from the rows of merchandise, stepping with practiced ease. My first clear sight was her silver links of belt slanted over her hips that flickered in the glass case below the rack I lingered over. “May I help you?”

I turned to this sudden observer. There was a nametag. She was slim and her burgundy hair flared out as she smiled. The sheen of her eyes must have meant she adored my interest in cosmetics, the way in which my fingers dipped toward the applicators and samples.

“Just browsing.”

“Let me know if there is anything in particular.”

“I’m not planning to buy anything today. We’re just visiting Bath, and happened to come here.”

“I see. Very good. No need to purchase anything. But, perhaps you’ll change your mind,” she winked. “You can have a seat, sir, if you like. I’m willing to treat you to a sample. We can give new customers a small makeover.”

“I’m not sure. Not today? Tomorrow? What’s your name?”

“Lydia,” she tapped her tag. “Very good to meet you. We can set up a five to ten minute appointment for tomorrow, if it interests you?”

“Well. Sure, how could I pass this one up? My name’s Casey. Noon, tomorrow?”

She returned to her counter, drew out a pad, and marked down my time.

“I’ll be working again, tomorrow, and I’ll fix up your face then. See you at noon, Casey.”

I was excited though unsure what to think. Lydia had invited me, was willing to touch me up in public. I’d touched up my lips and eyelids in private, beside a few of my friends, but I was wearing makeup less as time went on. Only with the grins of my friendly lesbian couple did I brave the application of cosmetics. After cooking dinner with my friends at the hostel-castle, I went to bed early. Our beds were in a much smaller building across from the main hostel. The rooms had supposedly been used to shack the injured during war. Residents of the hostel had told us of a young boy who had been hurt in war and was shacked here. It was said he could be seen hobbling the hallways of the smaller building in a large cast, peering in at visitors, searching for someone with pained eyes as he passed through the walls. This kept me wary and curious as I crossed from the castle toward my bedroom. The stars brightened over the dangle of arching tree limbs. Inside I sprawled on my pad and closed my eyelids. I was worn out and soon fell asleep and dreamed of a boy’s eyes scowling down on me. I fell deeper. “You may have a seat sir.” I saw the boy stretching out on a cot, scowling at observers, me, and mostly at the nurse. A burgundy-haired nurse leaned over him, applied balm to his diseased, bullet-torn flesh. His lips were blue and the balm glittered on his leg. A cast waited at the nurse’s feet. She peered at bruises on his head. “I’ll fix up your face. I’ll attend to your lips.” Then the boy was hobbling between walls, looking through doorways, and then he faded through the wooden hollow of the hall and into the night.

I woke and dashed water across my face, smoothing liquid over my dry lips. My friends were curled up together, and I left them, to the kitchen. A bowl of cereal, then I left a note for my friends, gave them a day to themselves, and jumped onto my bike.

Lydia positioned a mirror on the glass counter and unlocked several cases. Then she suggested I try the subtle coppers and rosy pinks produced by Lancôme.

“Lydia, I’ve never had professional work on my face before,” I said.

“Please wait a moment, Casey,” she said. She began setting up a workspace in front of the counter and she had me sit down on a cushioned chair.

“What shade will you use?” She was silent still and I filled the moments. “Any color will do. I don’t know what’s popular. I don’t know the trends to follow – for a boy, what trends are there?”

“Give me but a moment Casey.” She unfolded her table and arranged cosmetics and applicators on the metal surface. Then she stood in front of me.

“How long have you been in Bath?” She began our session with a simple question.

“Almost a week now,” was my simple answer.

“Are you enjoying your visit?” She eyed my face as she asked, balancing an applicator between her index and thumb fingers.

“Oh yea, this is a pretty spot, isn’t it. I’m glad to be out of London for now.”

“Really?” She cast that out, distracted by her business with color texturing.

“I had been staying with friends near Camden. But now I’ve been traveling with two friends, the two girls you saw me with yesterday. I gave them the day to themselves.”

I gazed at her close-cut, pastel, polyester pants, admiring the three loose links of pink lace wrapping up the lower end of each leg. Her silver belt was still draped from hip to hip.

“Nice pants.”

“Thank you. I can point out the store I bought them from.” She touched the belt and said, “But this belt, a friend of mine in London made it. His signature is on here somewhere.” She nodded and uncapped a tube of Lancôme. She glanced at the brush wobbling in her grasp, and I tried to get a look at the tube’s label.

“What color?” I asked.

“Please, don’t talk right now Casey. I’m about to apply this and any movement might prove fatal. Perk your lips out boy.”

I half-chuckled, perking my lips slightly then keeping still and silent as she carefully smoothed the firm mixture of oils and chemicals onto my lips. I closed my eyes as she brushed up my eyelids and powdered my cheeks. This was a full application, apparently, and I grew tired eased back on the chair, with a professional fixing up my male face.

That boy last night, did the nurse apply balm to his skin like Lydia was doing now?

“You may open your eyes. It’s not a long process.”

I opened my lids and saw her looking at me with eyes like crystal, all reflections and opaque blues. Puzzled for a moment, I kept staring, and she returned the look, her eyebrows raised suspiciously, her lips raised up like her left brow. She pointed to the mirror and adjusted it toward my face. I wanted to examine more of the reflection of me in her eyes, but I turned to look at the swiveled mirror, sitting up.

“Wonderful. What a color! I never thought these coppers and reds would mix so well on me.”

“I find it quite fitting on you,” she spoke professionally.

“Never tried such a shade before. With such help.”

“Would you like to make a purchase after all, Casey?”

“I’m not sure. I might not wear it so often.”

“And, why not?” She tapped my knee for emphasis.

I stood up straight when she tapped my knee and I looked up at her. “I’m not sure.”

“Hum.” She began cleaning up her merchandise, applicators and cosmetics. I got up from the chair and brought it back to an upright position. I asked if I could help. When she said it was unnecessary, I shrugged and toyed with the tubes on display, just like the first time I had entered the store with my friends. I could see my face touched up with her hands in the glass below.

“Anything else I can help you with today?”

“I should be going. Maybe tomorrow. Thank you so much for your help.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” She nodded and paused a moment, looking behind me, as if she saw another patron in need of assistance. She seemed colder in tone to me. “I’ll tell you once more, those colors look wonderful on you. You might reconsider and return. Take this card. A good day to you.”

She returned to her duties. I departed the store, wandered off through aisles then stepped out between the doors that automatically slide to the side. Outside was the sky without a cloud and I flashed a smile. I wandered up toward a small garden and passed the day watching people, sightseeing, imagining ghosts, and then walked my bicycle back through the wood to the hostel-castle.

I slept early again. As I undressed to my underwear and slipped under the covers, I thought of Lydia’s welcoming attention to my face then the cold professional edge to her parting words. My friends were showering together. I slept, and the cripple woke me once at midnight to mouth the word Lancôme then lay out and slept on an empty bed nearby. I didn’t respond, didn’t want to see his legs. I dreamt more of his lips, blue, pressed against a pillow. Then his lips, floating without attached body or face, followed me around Camden Town, London. We went to a fountain and drank frosty water like beggars. Those lips often spoke and I often looked away. A passing woman laughed with full cheeks. She spoke of social trends I didn’t manage to understand and kissed me when I shouted at her. She pulled away, stroking her braids, and drifted backward, winking. Such incidents were swept aside when I woke and knew better than to stay within these strange, wooden walls.

“You’ve returned,” Lydia said.

I sat on a bench near the sliding doors of that cosmetics section. Lengths of the mall lay out on each side of the wide, cobblestone plaza I sat in. There was a tall fountain behind my bench filled with the warbling of birds that splashed and flung themselves at seeds. Two young boys tossed out seeds. Others walked about in the sun, dressed for the chill.

Lydia had plaited her hair so that it arched over the tips of her ears and dipped along her temples. She stepped up from the direction of the bell tower and church, raising a gloved hand in salute to her customer. “Will you visit the cosmetics today, Casey?”

“Thinking about it. That was a good color. A job well done.”

“Thank you. Yes, charming on you. I rarely try my hand on male faces. I was lucky yesterday.”

She looked at me, perhaps considering the seat beside me or perhaps imagining a shade on my lips, a different texture of powder on my skin. I stood up then extended my hand. She turned her gaze and stared at my hand as we shook. I continued staring at the color on her lips until we finished shaking hands.

“Thank you for your help yesterday.”

“Of course. Only what my job requires of me. And, I told you I was lucky - something extra to add interest to my workday, to learn a useless bit of a foreign boy.” She had her arms crossed over her breasts.

“Ah. When do you work?” I said, wondering if she wanted more from this, a date, some girls apparently finding these colors handsome after all.

“Sorry, I wasn’t insulting you.” We kept standing. “Not a useless bit, a teasing snippet. Just something to draw me in, right?”

I sat down. “What do you mean? Are you, are you trying to say I’m playing you?”

“Not on purpose?” she countered and kept standing, looking down at me.

It thought it was almost a glare in her look. But maybe it was the sunlight. “No,” I told her.

“It was just about the lipstick?”

“I thought so. But, I think I might be interested in you too.”

“Oh? Is that so?” She seemed to flare out her legs, and I thought she was modeling.

“I mean, I feel like it’s rare to have such attention put on touching up my lips, my face, in public, that whoever offered her skills to do so must be interesting.”

“I see.” She had already gone back to crossing her arms over her breasts. “Okay. I’ll sit.”

She sat next to me on the bench. “Why do you wear lipstick?” she asked.

“I don’t wear it that often.”

“Why do you love wearing lipstick?”

“How do you know I love it?” I raised an eyebrow at her and chuckled.

“A guess, but true, maybe you just wanted to try something new for a day.”

“Of course, I saw a cute girl, so I thought I could get her in bed with the old trailing my fingers across the cosmetics trick. It always works. They think it’s so unusual and oddly romantic that they can’t wait for me to invite them out.” I trailed my fingers over the air to demonstrate.

“Ha. Very funny. I’ve fallen for it before. Only, that’s why I work there.” She turned and winked.

“Really? Good job, eh?”

“Right. I can keep up my image, keep up my loneliness, and keep up the legions of pretty boys migrating to this boring rut named Bath.” She leaned and stretched.

I stretched to then said, “No. Your first guess was right. I think I’ve loved lipstick since high school. But it’s since high school that I’ve felt it was a bad thing to wear. Society gets you down for wearing it if you’re a boy.”

“And doesn’t if you’re a girl?”

“No, it doesn’t,” I said promptly.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Though, I guess it might be suppression sometimes that girls have to wear makeup to be cool, to make it in society, but, for me, lipstick is just something I want to wear. It’s not going to get me anywhere. If I wear it, I won’t get anywhere in the eyes of society, my marketable future, my respectability. People will call me a clown and decide I’m just a lost kid, decide I’m deluded, or decide I’m offensive and need scorn or a good pounding.” I shrugged.

“Hum. Possible. But, what does it mean if a woman working in a department store professionally applies this dangerous lipstick to your lips and doesn’t scorn you, find you deluded, or pound in your face?” She poked my shoulder to emphasize her touché.

“Right… that’s why I’m back. Well, the friends I’m traveling with, they like my lipstick thing, but they feel like close friends. They should know about my odd obsessions and at least allow them. But they do more than that, they encourage me. Yet, you’re a stranger, right? And you’re encouraging me. So anyway, I couldn’t let go of this strange woman named Lydia and had to come back. Why is she letting me get away with this oddity?” I shook my head in confusion.

Lydia was grinning. Her narrow hands clapped in the air and she slapped me on the shoulder. “You’re so funny! If this lipstick is such a part of you, why care about all these others? Why do you need a stranger’s encouragement to dabble in this part of you publicly? Well, as for myself, I could tell right away what these tubes of lipstick meant to you as soon as you wandered through the section. Not just because you were there, but how you trailed your finger over those tubes specifically. And I noticed how you were obsessed with them. But I think it’s not so bad. You must have met some closed minded folks. Still, I’m too hard on you.”

I nodded, “Really, you are. That’s okay though, I just won’t ever go back to that store, now that I know how rude the staff is. Speaking of that, Lydia, don’t you have to work?”

“Yes. My lunch break is almost over. I figured I could start working here, seduce a customer into my store. But it looks like I tripped up.” She grinned.

“You gave it all away. Now I’ll be looking for my rivals.” I glanced around the plaza.

“You’re not wearing any makeup.”

“That puts me out of the game?”

“No. That means you’re losing points. I only like brave men.” She shook a finger at me.

“Ah. Well.” I put my hand on her knee. “Tonight. When are you free? Let’s talk more about the social dynamics of cosmetic application.”

Lydia slapped my hand. “I said brave, not lecherous.” I quickly withdrew my hand. “But, discussing cosmetics sounds so romantic. Really, how could I resist such an invitation, Casey? I’m off at six. Meet me here?”

“Okay.”

And she jumped up and strode into the mall, not looking back at me. And that was how I first began dating Lydia. I listened to the birds then departed. I had to ask my friends for advice. Or I had to at least decide what I wanted out of this new friend. And I had to decide what lipstick meant to me, or there would be nothing to discuss. No honesty.