I have never been a diehard lipstick user. Wearing makeup at all amounted to an act of rebellion against my mom, who had pretty much given up the whole regimen thing in her 20s, with the occasional exception of mascara and eyebrow pencil. 

So with that sort of role model, I was pretty much flying blind, except for what I saw on other girls at my junior high school or in rare glimpses of Seventeen Magazine (which my mother refused to buy because I was supposed to be reading “real books.”) I knew to use foundation. I figured out how to wear rouge without it looking like war paint. Eyeshadow and mascara? LOVED them. But somehow my mouth never registered in my consciousness. I am not sure if it just seemed like an aspect of my face that didn’t need any help, or if I thought lipstick was messy and bound to get me in some kind of trouble, or what. I do remember my mom telling me that badly applied lipstick risked a Chuckles the Clown outcome; maybe that scared me off.

I have since met women who insist that a “face” is not “finished” until a “lip” is applied. I won’t dispute this, though I’ll suppress a smile at the terminology. (“Lip,” to me, is what you do not give your elders or betters.) My grandmother was a member of this this club. Some of my earliest memories are punctuated by glimpses of the bewitching and wildly unfamiliar contents of her purse, and lipstick was hardly the least of it.

I knew that my mom’s purse contained a wallet, keys, cigarettes and a lighter, and usually a pair of sunglasses. If we were flush, there would also be a pack of gum. If I was in luck, it would be Dentyne, which I loved, but usually it was Doublemint, which sucked. By contrast, my grandmother’s purse was three times the size and an endless source of entertainment on car trips. Along with the keys and wallet, there were cloth handkerchiefs. Packets of Certs. An accordion file of photos. Pills, a checkbook, a sewing kit.

And then a whole other compartment for her scarf and comb, nail file, compact and lipstick. We would go out to eat, and afterward in the car she would flip her compact open, unsheathe her coral lipstick and hold the lid in the same hand as the compact, focus that tiny mirror on her mouth, apply a coat, mash her lips together, squint at the mirror, then put the top back on her lipstick and close up the compact shut with a very decisive snap. I always wondered why this arcane ritual had to be done in the car. Was it a secret that her lips weren’t really that color? Was it considered gross to do in front of others, like picking your nose? I think I was in grade school before I finally asked her, and then all she said was that “nice people don’t do things like that at the table.” I think there might have been an implied addendum that she would have preferred to straighten up in a bathroom but my grandfather was generally in a big hot hurry to leave so she had amended her practices.

When I was in my 20s, I went through a very brief lipstick phase. Turned out I was not a fan. I never got in trouble for using it, but it was, indeed, messy. It took a lot of practice to figure out how to put it on, how to blot it off, how to keep it off my teeth, how to minimize the effect of drinking straws. Plus the reapplication (be it in a car or anywhere else). I also never quite figured out how to stop the phenomenon of lipstick crumbs, which grossed me out no end. When chapped lip season came around again, I was quite content to dump lipstick for Blistex.

Truth be told, it was a relief to learn that my husband was also not a fan of the stuff. He asserted that it had been invented “to make women look like they just finished giving someone a blowjob,” which … I mean, maybe? That outcomes has more to recommend it than looking like Chuckles the clown, anyway. But he also said it ruined kissing—“tastes bad, feels bad.”

Not gonna lie; I still wore it for our wedding because So Many Photos. And I would buy one every few years, thinking maybe I was wrong and should give it another try. I wasn’t wrong, and I never, ever “finished” one. They’d sit in my makeup caddy or medicine cabinet for a couple years, and then I’d throw them out.

I have two in my purse now—one pink and one red. I can’t remember when I bought them. I can’t remember the last time I used either one. I am pretty sure there is no upcoming occasion on my calendar that would motivate me to bust out one or the other.

Blistex, on the other hand? See you in November!