Annie Walton Doyle

On the difficult and important topic of highlighter, I’m torn.

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

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

Inside everyone is a little bit of a Francophile, right? French things are just good and that’s that.

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."

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

There seems to be something about being a Millennial that is making me depressed. Our childhoods have left us particularly unprepared for the "real world."

Aside from knitting and prescribed medications, beauty products are the thing that helps me out the most during a bout of depression. Sound crazy? Read on.