Red Lipstick- Part 2

I haven't worn red lipstick for a while- mostly out of laziness: that stuff gets everywhere. Alas, the last time I wore it resulted in the first Red Lipstick story. Maybe it's just sheer dumb luck I experienced the same sort of crap again seven months later.

I went out with a couple of friends tonight to see a film (Mad Max is the most intense, awesome two hours of film ever). Because we were also going to a nice bar beforehand, I decided to put my favourite red lippy on. I was just wearing the sort of dress I'd wear to work. Nothing revealing, nothing fancy.

But it seems like these are a distraction for some:

Even when they're attached to a face with an expression like this:

I caught a late train home and managed to grab a seat, immediately getting my phone out to play Go (an ancient Chinese board game I've recently become mildly obsessed with). No sooner had I taken my phone out and started a game than the man sitting next to me- about thirty years my senior- leaned into my personal bubble of space.

"Got to make sure you reply to those texts, right?" He drawled.

"Yep," I said shortly, not liking his snarky tone and not bothering to correct him about what I was doing.

"I can reply to some of them if you want?"

"No, thank you," I said, again keeping it short but (foolishly) polite.

"Come on, let me help you reply to your texts."

"Nope," I said, more than a little more curtly.

"Aww come on, don't be like that." He leaned over a little more.

This time I completely ignored him, calmly placing a stone on my virtual Go board instead.

The man then turned to his mate, sitting on his other side, and snorted loudly, "People on trains these days. They have no class... no matter how they look."

I'm not joking: that's what he said.

I flat-out ignored him, even though I really, really wanted to verbally tear him to pieces. Of course, it was just bait to get me to respond.

Throughout the journey this man kept on and on at me, while I held my ground. The last straw was when he turned to his friend and asked what stop he needed to get off at: it was my stop. Right at the end of the line.

'Sod this,' I thought, and got off the train at the next stop, catching the next one home.

Why am I so sure it was the red lipstick? Because once again, as I mentioned in Part 1: my hair, my clothes and the rest of my makeup was as it usually is. The only thing different about my style was the colour of my lips- and I never, ever get this sort of problem when I'm not wearing it.

Why is red lipstick a green light to be pushy for some people? It's just a sodding colour, after all. I'm going to go ahead and say it: it's because for some people (and it's just a few select arseholes, both male and female), see red lipstick as a great big sandwich board with 'I'm easy' written on it.

Am I going to stop wearing red lipstick when I feel like it, because of this?

Heck, no.

Red Lipstick

"Hey, you're beautiful! Gorgeous!"

I didn't realise the rickshaw driver was hollering at me until he cycled past, his hand reaching out to stroke my hair: I had become the unwitting victim of a cycle-by petting. What surprised me more than the unsolicited contact, however, was my instant, knee-jerk reaction as I recoiled away from his touch.

"Eww..!" I said, laughing and scrunching my nose up like I was in primary school and the rickshaw driver was a little boy with cooties. I didn't notice his reaction as I was too busy laughing at the ridiculousness of the driver's grabbiness and the childishness of my reaction.

I hadn't noticed that the driver had been catcalling me because I wasn't expecting it. I usually dress smartly enough when out and about, but I happened to be going to a 1940's style event with a few friends- so my long hair, usually tied back in a braid, was curled in Hollywood-style waves, and I wore a striking red lipstick. The rest of me was pretty much the same- a smart black dress I often wear to work and ankle boots with sensible-ish heels. I don't tend to get catcalled or chatted up, and I didn't think that a bit of red lippy would be enough to turn me from Everyday Tash to someone to be grabbed at like a can of beans at the supermarket.

What makes guys think they can act like that, though? What happened to just saying hello, or chatting? I'm lucky that I haven't had to experience this too often, but I have other friends that get this kind of treatment all the time. And even I have, although not too often- the last time anyone showed any interest in me in that way ended in almost two years of persistent harassment and borderline stalking which has only just recently stopped (I hope). I think if it weren't for my male friends and family I'd have long ago lost faith in men. Thankfully all I have to do is think of them and I realise that there are just quite a few weirdos, creeps and socially awkward people out there- but of course, not everyone is. Saying that all guys are creeps is like saying all women are crazy. This is wrong, of course: everyone is crazy. I suppose life is all about finding the people that are your special brand of crazy to get along with.

All the same, guys- if you're ever riding a rickshaw and pass a pretty girl you don't know, reaching out to stroke their hair as you cycle by is very unlikely to get a positive response.

Of Street Food and Melting Makeup...

True to form, my first tale of woe will be of one that only happened yesterday.

I was milling around in Camden Town yesterday evening, waiting for the precise moment to start walking to London Zoo for the summer Zoo Lates event (one thing about me- I hate, hate, hate to be late for appointments and meetups, often resulting in me being somewhere ridiculously early and then having to find ways of entertaining myself- thankfully easily done in Camden Town, on this occasion). I noticed it was getting a bit breezier now, so I put my cardigan on, but without buttoning up- it wasn't that chilly (trust me, this is a key bit of information for later).

Having grabbed some food from one of the stalls and found a nice bench to sit and eat at, I suddenly remembered that the shirt I had on was white- not a crisp white mind you, but white with grey pinstripes. White enough to make a bad impression of a messy eater, in any case. Noting my poor choice in food in terms of stain factor, I ate the fluorescently orange (and very delicious) sweet and sour chicken with utmost care, and for once, successfully.

Making a note of the time, I decided to touch my makeup up a bit, being forever conscious of my oily (and therefore shiny) skin type. I checked myself in my compact mirror. Alright, was my internal assessment, but a bit reflective around the nose and forehead area: better sort that out before I meet the guys. I fished out my trusty tube of Benefit The Porefessional primer from the depths of my bottomless bag (I always make a point of buying bags with TARDIS technology), unscrewed the lid and carefully squeezed a tiny blob onto the back of my hand.


At least, I intended to squeeze out a tiny blob.

What I actually squeezed out was a whole lot of runny mess, and all over myself: the primer had melted in the warm weather. Cursing, I hurriedly screwed the top back on and made that pose everyone does when suddenly covered with wet stuff (you know, the 'looking generally down at yourself in disbelief with your elbows at your sides but your forearms stuck out like an incredulous velociraptor' pose). It wasn't looking good- now my shirt was streaked with light peachy marks. Could be worse, I thought to myself, at least it's nowhere near as noticable as sweet and sour would have been. I managed to mop myself up well enough with some tissues, but couldn't help noting that I hadn't solved my shiny face problem yet. It occurred to me that I should have kneaded the tube before using it. Silly me! It had been in my bag for a while, after all. I picked the tube up again, and squished it around.

I didn't realise that, in my previous haphazard hurry, I hadn't screwed the top back on properly.

So here I was, shiny-faced and with primer makeup on practically every part of my body except for my face. A bit fed up now, I managed to smear a bit of the stuff straight from my shirt onto my face, re-mopped myself up as best I could, and decided it was time to get myself to the zoo.

I should have just kept walking, in hindsight. Instead, I stopped by a churros stall. I noticed they were doing large, filled churros instead of the traditional thin ones that you dip into chocolate, so I went to get one, deciding that it would cheer me up. And it did, for a while.

I got about halfway through it until it very quietly and very messily exploded.

Now thoroughly fed-up indeed, churro-less and looking like the posterchild for a Persil advert, I resigned myself to the fact that I'd now be meeting my friends looking utterly ridiculous. I whipped out some more tissues and started cleaning the sticky stuff from my bag, and as well as I could from my trousers. I sighed, preparing myself, and looked down to properly assess the state of my shirt, which was of course terrible.

It was then that I noticed why it had suddenly gotten breezy earlier.

The middle button of my shirt had been undone the entire time, exposing, in all its green and spotty glory, my bra.

Which was now also splattered with chocolate.