I am yet to work out whether someone telling me I have lipstick on my teeth is rude, or not. Is it a slap of sorts? If it comes from a friend probably not, but what about if it is delivered by someone you don’t know that well? Like at a function and you’ve just been introduced to someone and before they even say hello they start demonstratively sticking their fingers in their mouth.
I ask because the kind of lipstick I wear travels a bit. I do have a general lipstick-on-teeth management plan, but there are occasions when it’s been applied rather rapidly and without a lot of care because I’ve been busy trying to get everyone else out the door.
That is usually the time when random people tell me my teeth have been smeared with Non Stop Cherry or Paint The Town Red. And it just bothers me a bit that people feel it’s their business to let me know such things, because in doing so they are also telling me I am flawed and they are perfect and kind enough to remind me when I am clearly not.
Plus, if someone is keen to tell me I have lipstick on my teeth, they are also making the assumption that I might feel the need to do something about it. That I care. And if I don’t care, I should. The thing is, sometimes I do care and other times I couldn’t give a flying truckload of Racy Red or Subtle Nude because some days are just like that.
And maybe I like it that way. Maybe I actually paint my teeth deliberately, because I am in no way perfect, and having a blemished tooth, in my opinion, is a pretty cool way of reminding everyone that not all of us have the time or the inclination to present a perfect picture to the world.
Sometimes I’m just downright thankful I’ve managed to find my lipstick at all, and the fact I’ve dusted it off from the murky depths of my bag and applied it, albeit in a haphazard kind of way, is something of an achievement. Small, but something.
And hey, it’s not as if I’ve just walked down a main road with my skirt tucked in my undies, or my undies on my head, or not wearing undies at all. It’s just a wee little smear of lipstick, and it’s not hurting anyone.
Once I sat through an entire lunch with a colleague who had a booger poking out of his nostril. And I chatted the whole way through that lunch, slurping on a bowl of curry that seemed just a little less delicious because of the picture in front of me, but I said nothing about it. Part of me was hoping that little booger would just make its own journey out of there to a less conspicuous place like the floor, without the need for human intervention.
Because even if I knew how to politely say, “Mate, wipe your face”, I don’t think he needed to know I’d been staring at him the whole way through lunch while a bit of slimy body fluid danced around his cheeks.
And maybe he was fine with that idea, too, of a booger decorating his face because maybe he thought it was an endearing thing. And it’s just a booger. Like lipstick smears, we all have them from time to time.
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