Annie Walton Doyle

Let this idea appeal to your insubordinate nature: the world wants me to not like my face, so guess what? I’ve decided I like it. Take that, world!

Sometimes with skincare, it’s the satisfying science speak which lulls you into a state of security.

Remember at the start of the year, when we all watched a teenager with a mouth full of Juvaderm bizarrely reclining in front of a fire that looks l

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.

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.

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.

Companies — like, say, L'Oreal — wouldn’t just use the broad, vague, abstract concept of diversity (by hiring Munroe Bergdorf) to lure in customers... would they? But you have to remember — companies are about money-making first and foremost. Sometimes, they’re not really about much else.

Is there any makeup as synonymous with the twenty-teens as eyebrows?