Annie Walton Doyle

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.

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

Of all of the supposed beauty “problems” in the world, for me, roots are really the least “problematic.” In fact, I love mine dearly.

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.

As someone with a longstanding and deep love of a shine-face, powder blush has always been somewhat of a problem area for me.

If there’s one thing that makes me deeply proud of my generation (apart from our general anti-Brexit sentiment) it’s the newfound omnipresence high

Lash stain: what the hell. Am I right?

Can you partake in the beauty industry — makeup, tutorials, magazines, and the oppressive standards they impose — and still feel good about your self-worth?

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