Annie Walton Doyle

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

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.

For a long time, I suspected that primer was a bit of a swizz. Makeup to go under your makeup, you say? Sounds very “Emperor’s New Clothes” to me.

Lash stain: what the hell. Am I right?

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

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.

My struggles with eyebrows have been well documented over the years.

I think it’s safe to say that I’m coming to the end of my blond

You can’t fight it so embrace it: Fluffy winter hair.

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!