Our first 'lip gloss' or when being women was a fun game
A generational memory about childhood, captured femininity, and small rituals that anticipated a way of understanding what it meant to be a woman, before it stopped being a game
PalmaThe two girls I have in front of me are the ones who are the most well-behaved in the entire group of third graders in Primary school who are now surrounding me. They were the first to sit down, further away from the rest, as soon as they entered the carriage. They remain oblivious to what is happening in the background, to their classmates, who are jumping, shouting and fighting to get into the photo the teacher is taking of them. Occupying the minimum space of their seat and with their legs crossed, they hardly move, nor is their voice heard during the subway ride. But those of us who grew up with the phrase “You, look and be quiet” recognize each other. I look at them and they are quiet. I don't need words to discover their universe, hidden behind the mobile phone screen.
Each one of them carries a treasure in her backpack. They probably left it ready last night, knowing that today they had a school trip and would go together. Trips always allow for certain liberties, they are not like a normal school day. It's the day to go out in the street with friends and without parents. And that makes you think that you have to pack other things in your backpack, things like what older girls carry in their handbags, for example. So the two of them are well prepared today: they want to impress each other and share their most prized possessions.
The one with the glittery purple backpack takes out necklaces, a hairspray, and finally, a lip gloss. She applies it with precision and hands it over to her companion, who shows less concern. After slathering themselves with the product, both touch up for a good while and ask each other, pointing at their faces: “Do I look good?”. They seem more concerned about having gloss on their lips than wearing it, because it doesn't last long on them either. One of them recently discovered a new trick and wants to make the most of every little item she put in her backpack, so she takes out a pack of tissues and seals it with her lips, leaving an almost invisible kiss print.
I must have gotten my first lip gloss
as a gift with Bravo magazine, along with a quiz to see if I was compatible with the boy I liked. Transparent, innocuous, harmless, it was the best Trojan horse. The slightest bit of makeup, capable of satisfying me and my parents at the same time. The only possible negotiation. The methadone of femininity, when it was an aspiration, something indistinguishable from growing up. For a long time, we confused being adults with fitting the stereotype of women. They were two things that, for us, happened at the same time and we were unable to separate. Like when my friend Sara referred to an “air-conditioned venue” as a luxurious place. Okay, a luxurious place is usually air-conditioned, but an air-conditioned venue doesn't have to be luxurious.
The lip gloss was everything: the feeling of sticky lips gave us the physicality of being women, a sensation that made it real. Getting your hair stuck to your lips was proof you were doing it right, because suffering was the first step to being beautiful. The lip gloss was a placebo when we couldn't yet aspire to the very red lips of our grandmothers on Sundays when going to mass. And the lip gloss was, moreover, the best excuse to start carrying a handbag. A handbag to carry it, him, and our little doll. Because there was a time when both coexisted, with no possible transition.
Back then, we settled for that shine on our lips, a flesh-colored eyeshadow, and transparent mascara. Back then, we didn't care about the result. We just wanted to feel the effect of wearing it, to savor the ritual of fitting perfectly into the category they had given us: dolls. That was when we were still content with the price to pay for being born dolls, that is, before the first “pretty” in the street and “sow” in bed. That was when being women was still a fun game; when – like the Virgin Suicides – we were unaware of “how one can complicate life” because “we had never been a 13-year-old girl.” After all, “girls were, in reality, disguised women”.