Thin line separates sanity and vanity

by Beth Teitell
Tuesday, October 29, 2002

I don't want to be a person who thinks lip liner could change her life, or, for that matter, a person living a life so shallow it could be changed by lip liner, but after you've driven to Bloomingdale's at rush hour, with a gas tank on empty and a nanny waiting to go off duty, and dropped $26 for a precision lip definer pencil by Chanel, it's time to accept certain truths about oneself.

``Were you in a psychotic state?'' a friend asked when I confessed what I'd done.

Apparently, yes.

But as I find is so often the case in such situations, what happened wasn't my fault. I had been sitting around with some women, big foundation-wearers, when the subject of lip wear arose, and it emerged that I don't line. ``I'm scared,'' I said. ``What if I look like Carmela Soprano?''

There was silence, and then, when the shock wore off, one woman spoke, her well-defined lips giving even greater impact to her warning: ``What you should be scared of,'' she said, ``is not wearing liner.''

As the group nodded, she testified to what she'd seen: unlined lips practically invisible to the naked eye, or - worse - unable to hold their lipstick. She explained how the liner acts as a levee, holding back lipstick that would otherwise make a break for your face. ``Do you want the Mississippi loose on your cheeks?'' she asked.

``Line,'' she ordered in her summation. ``It will change your life.''

I'm at an age at which I know that something so easily available can't really change my life, and yet, at the same time, I'm at an age at which I really want to believe - need to believe - that such change is possible.

In retrospect, even if the precision lip definer held superpowers, I'm not sure what kind of change I was after. The people who make the ``it-will-change-your-life'' promises never get specific. They make their showy prediction and then - poof - they're gone.

Would my new lips improve my luck in real estate? Land me a book deal? Help me stay away from white flour and refined carbohydrates?

Eager to find out, I lined my lips, being careful to draw from the center to the outer corners, and then went about my day.

My first stop was at a Dunkin' Donuts, where I ordered a small iced coffee and one chocolate Munchkin, which the clerk gave me for free. Free! Was it because she didn't want the hassle of figuring out how much to charge for a lone Munchkin? Or, the more likely explanation: Because of my lips, she felt she was in the presence of someone very important, perhaps a Dunkin' Donuts executive.

As could be expected, some of my lip wear came off on my straw (I popped the Munchkin in whole to prevent just that sort of problem), so I reapplied it before my next activity: go home to my children, ages 26 months and 1 year.

My older son, who'd been playing with spacemen, looked at me, and after some small talk, said: ``Mommy, kiss the astronaut.'' A typical request from a toddler? Or . . . a young boy who recognized a well-lined lip when he saw it?

The next day, aware that something exciting was happening, lipwise, I hit Newbury Street and braved one of the snootiest boutiques. I entered, preparing to be fawned over. I waited, but none of the slim clerks approached. Perhaps my liner had come off? I checked my lips in the mirror, but they were perfect. I waited some more. But I was still alone.

Baffled, I went into a dressing room and called a friend from my cell. ``Lip liner?'' she said, incredulous. ``That's been out for years.''

``I just got a pair of stylish but comfortable black boots,'' she said. ``I think they're going to change my life. You should get a pair.''

Boots! Of course! I put my liner away, and headed out to the shoe store, where my exciting new future lay.