Annie Walton Doyle

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

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.

Remember your first foray into the makeup world? Everything was more fun then. Colors were chosen in a magpie-like fashion.

It’s a prime example of what I’ve known all along: that the true crime interest and the niceness of a person are not mutually exclusive.

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.

Of all of the supposed beauty “problems” in the world, for me, roots are really the least “problematic.” In fact, I love mine dearly.

In much the same way I feel about my eyebrows, I feel perpetual dissatisfaction with my lips.

As someone with a longstanding and deep love of a shine-face, powder blush has always been somewhat of a problem area for me.

Can you partake in the beauty industry — makeup, tutorials, magazines, and the oppressive standards they impose — and still feel good about your self-worth?