Lipstick & Lies: My Grandmother’s Unbreakable Rule

"Never trust a woman not wearing lipstick."

That was my grandmother’s cardinal rule, the hill she chose to die on, the single unshakable belief that guided her through life as confidently as she navigated the cosmetics aisle at The Bon Ton. She never explained it—never sat me down and said, “Here’s why, dear.” No, it was just understood, absorbed through osmosis, passed down like a sacred Revlon scroll.

My mother and her sisters all carried lipstick like a secret weapon, a hidden lie detector tucked neatly into the darkest corners of their purses. It wasn’t for vanity. It wasn’t even for beauty. It was for something deeper, something… primal. Bright pink or red lipstick marks were as much a part of my childhood as Wrigley’s Gum, the Schwanny guy, and the smell of Aqua Net permanently affixed to the bathroom walls.

But why?

Why did my grandma believe that the bare-lipped were fundamentally untrustworthy? Did she think a woman who couldn’t commit to lipstick couldn’t commit to anything? Did she have a traumatic experience with chapstick? Had she been tricked by a suspiciously pale-mouthed cousin? Had she once been burned by a lipstick-less best friend who borrowed her Tupperware and never returned it?

And what did it mean when she encountered someone with only lip liner? Was that woman on the verge of a breakdown? A liar of the highest order? Or simply running late?

And what about the woman who used lipstick but applied it with reckless abandon, veering outside the lines of her lips like an unsupervised toddler with a red Sharpie? Was she to be pitied? Feared? Reported to the authorities?

I never asked. Because you don’t ask. You just listened, nod solemnly, and reapply frequently, like a responsible person.

My grandma, of course, never left the house without looking like she’d stepped straight out of an Estée Lauder ad. Her lips were always perfectly painted, lined, and sealed for longevity, as if she were preparing for an impromptu meeting with the Pope or a last-minute invitation to dine with the Queen. I don’t think I ever saw her apply lipstick. It was just always… there. Like a part of her face, more permanent than her own fingerprints.

It occurs to me now that she probably did trust a woman without lipstick. Just not with anything important. You could probably borrow a cup of sugar from her with bare lips, maybe even a casserole dish, but a family secret? A bank deposit? Absolutely not.

And this is where it all falls apart.

Because—God help me—I don’t wear lipstick.

Not even for special occasions. Not even for funerals (which would send my grandma rolling in her perfectly powdered grave). My whole generation abandoned the Lipstick Code entirely. Somewhere along the way, we swapped Revlon Red for Burt’s Bees and settled in with a false sense of confidence.

What would Grandma think if she saw us now, walking around in broad daylight, our lips naked and vulnerable to the world? Would she shake her head in disappointment? Would she pull me aside and whisper, "Honey, I love you, but you are not to be trusted."

I don’t know.

Still, when I picture her in my mind—lips perfectly painted, raising an eyebrow at my (gasp) underdressed mouth—I can’t help but think… she’d probably have a point.

And with that thought, I reach into my purse, past the loose gum wrappers and emergency dog treats, and sigh.

Grandma may be gone, but I can still hear her voice, clear as day: "For heaven’s sake Christy, put some color on those lips before people start asking questions."