Annie Walton Doyle

I think it’s safe to say that I’m coming to the end of my blond

Self-care is a phrase so enthusiastically tossed about as of late that in many ways it has lost all meaning. In the same way “wellness” has gone, the concept now seems vague and fuzzy, somehow ineffable.

Lash stain: what the hell. Am I right?

It’s official: I have bleached my hair to the point of no return. It can be bad: not cute and fluffy, but damaged and crazy.

Take your makeup love to its logical conclusion via a sensory attack on all fronts. Smelling like old ladies' handbags and young ladies' dressing tables and powder puffs and lipstick bullets has never been so easy as it is right now. It’s the scent family I call "makeup perfume."

Who could have predicted at the turn of the century that one of the biggest (if not the biggest) trends in makeup would be contouring?

I love spending money like a total asshole as much as the next woman. But sometimes, a cheap thrill is the most thrilling thrill of all.

In the aisles of a drugstore, one’s instinct is almost magpie-rial. Glitter! Neon! Caramel-scented!

It’s surely well known by now that the age of the heavily drawn on, perfectly angled eyebrow is coming to an end.

In much the same way I feel about my eyebrows, I feel perpetual dissatisfaction with my lips.