Annie Walton Doyle

During such trying times, there is one trusty frenemy whose shadowy presence always sneaks back into my life. Benzoyl peroxide, I wish I knew how to quit you.

Companies — like, say, L'Oreal — wouldn’t just use the broad, vague, abstract concept of diversity (by hiring Munroe Bergdorf) to lure in customers... would they? But you have to remember — companies are about money-making first and foremost. Sometimes, they’re not really about much else.

Remember at the start of the year, when we all watched a teenager with a mouth full of Juvaderm bizarrely reclining in front of a fire that looks l

On the difficult and important topic of highlighter, I’m torn.

There seems to be something about being a Millennial that is making me depressed. Our childhoods have left us particularly unprepared for the "real world."

Those weird bendy rollers you’ve never used are actually a Hot Tip for adding texture to damaged hair.

Let this idea appeal to your insubordinate nature: the world wants me to not like my face, so guess what? I’ve decided I like it. Take that, world!

In life, there’s not much I love more than a good bitch. I’d take a mean, hilarious person over a “nice” bland-y any day of the week.

It’s a prime example of what I’ve known all along: that the true crime interest and the niceness of a person are not mutually exclusive.

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.