Annie Walton Doyle

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

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

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.

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.

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.

It’s funny to think that sometimes I don’t have the energy to get off the couch, or to buy groceries, yet my face is constantly using said energy t

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

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

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.