The Hazards of Having a Girl

A few weeks ago, I preformed a much overdue make-up cleanse. I chucked anything I couldn’t remember purchasing, including some pretty questionable compacts dating back to my wedding and various free samples that never worked for me anyway. My makeup drawer was a clean slate and I excitedly I trotted off to Sephora to have some overpriced girly fun. And, oh, how fun it was.

Back home, I lined up my new lipsticks, powders and eye shadows neatly on my vanity and admired my collection. I washed all of my brushes and eagerly awaited an occasion that would allow me to dive into my new goodies. I may even have worn midnight blue eyeliner to preschool drop-off one morning. You, know, just to test it out. It was almost enough to just look at them, all lined up all shiny and new. I so enjoy being a girl.

Apparently, someone else does, too.

Last night, I discovered all of my new pencils sharpened to the core, with tiny scrapings littering the floor. My new tubes of lipstick had been used to paint the mirrors and globs of black mascara adorned our white towels. Fingerprints imprinted my powder and an entire tube of lotion was clogging the drain. And, somehow, an entire bottle of glossing spray was emptied, though I’m still not sure how and where. It serves me right for enjoying the peace and quiet at 8PM. I should have known something was up.

And then I spotted something else, peeking out from under the bath mat:

The site of poor butchered Barbie brought me back to the many days when I did the same playing in my mother’s makeup and chopping of my doll’s hair.  It also made me eternally grateful that Lily chose the doll’s hair rather than her own for this rite of passage. Thank goodness for small favors.

So, today, I’m back to Sephora to restock my supply. I do plan on moving my new makeup to a spot that cannot be reached by six year old fingers, at least the good stuff. Along with the scissors, of course.