Glow by Lady E

  Look at that pink. It looks like it should arrive before I do. But it doesn’t. A few light swipes give me just a soft flush of pink. If I want more, I can build it. And perhaps that’s what I like most about it. It lets me decide how playful I want to be that day. The first surprise was the color. The second? It smells like candy. EJ, my Dior ambassador, recommended Rosy Glow when I asked him to choose something for my Fun & Flirty issue. He told me this shade wasn’t only flattering on fair complexions. It works beautifully on morena skin, too. He was right. On me, it’s playful without looking juvenile. Pretty without becoming precious. And subtle enough that I don’t feel as though the blush entered the room five minutes before the rest of my face. Unless I want it to. Then I just keep building. 💗 Bright pink in the pan.  Soft on my cheeks.  Buildable when I want more. And it smells like candy. Which may explain why I have privately renamed it my Ki...

  I used to choose things because they’re pretty or affordable, but I end up hurt.  Like two brands of slippers that shall not be named.  Now I choose things that are kind to my body. Soft, supportive, gentle.  Especially after my foot ached for better.  I think I’m learning to apply that standard to more things. Pretty is lovely. Fun is lovely. And I will probably always be drawn to something that sparkles. But I don’t think beauty should require me to tolerate discomfort just to keep it around. That applies to something as small as a pair of slippers. Or a hairbrush. This new brush is still glittery. Still pretty. Still something that makes me smile when I see it sitting with my things. But it also feels good. The bristles glide through my hair without scratching my scalp or catching strands between broken tips. It does what a hairbrush is supposed to do without asking me to endure something first. And maybe that’s one of the quieter forms of self-respect. Not...

  I kept it because it was pretty.  Even when it started to hurt.  Even if it was already looking nasty.  No matter how hard I tried to clean it, some of the dirt just wouldn’t budge anymore.,  And the bristles.  A lot of them have lost their bristle tips.  And it hurt when I brushed.  And the empty tips were also pulling my hair.  But still, I kept it. Because it was pretty. Because it was glittery. Because technically, it still worked. And maybe because throwing something away when it can still be used has always felt a little wasteful to me. So I kept brushing my hair with it. And kept getting annoyed when it pulled. Kept wincing when one of those exposed bristles scratched my scalp. Until one day I thought: Why am I doing this? It’s a hairbrush. It’s supposed to make something as ordinary as brushing my hair feel good. And this one didn’t anymore. That thought felt strangely bigger than the brush in my hand. Because how many things do we ...