Annie Walton Doyle

In the aisles of a drugstore, one’s instinct is almost magpie-rial. Glitter! Neon! Caramel-scented!

I love spending money like a total asshole as much as the next woman. But sometimes, a cheap thrill is the most thrilling thrill of all.

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

The wonderful thing about knitting is that it combines mindfulness with mindlessness. You have to concentrate, sure, but you can easily lose yourself.

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

If there’s one thing that makes me deeply proud of my generation (apart from our general anti-Brexit sentiment) it’s the newfound omnipresence high

Take your makeup love to its logical conclusion via a sensory attack on all fronts. Smelling like old ladies' handbags and young ladies' dressing tables and powder puffs and lipstick bullets has never been so easy as it is right now. It’s the scent family I call "makeup perfume."

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

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!

During such trying times, there is one trusty frenemy whose shadowy presence always sneaks back into my life. Benzoyl peroxide, I wish I knew how to quit you.