Annie Walton Doyle

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

It’s funny to think that sometimes I don’t have the energy to get off the couch, or to buy groceries, yet my face is constantly using said energy t

Remember your first foray into the makeup world? Everything was more fun then. Colors were chosen in a magpie-like fashion.

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.

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

Being a “strong” and “empowered” woman is so hot right now.

Aside from knitting and prescribed medications, beauty products are the thing that helps me out the most during a bout of depression. Sound crazy? Read on.

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.

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.