#Hard west masked man mod
Missing lipstick, I think about its history: the cupid’s bow, when little else was expected of a woman the brave scarlet of the 1940s the pale pastels of the mod 1960s, the switch to “natural” lip gloss (though what is natural about lips coated with an ever-sticky slick of goo, I am not sure). The twisted smile of grudging acknowledgment the Cheshire grin that leaves the recipient unsettled, or should the small smug closed-lip smile of an enemy the wide happy smile that rated a special name, the Duchenne, because it is so real, it crinkles the eyes.ĭriving, I look hungrily inside other cars, reading emotion like a comic strip. Blown kisses or bubblegum, Bronx raspberries, and stuck-out tongues, jaw drops. Lips pressed tight as one of those old squeeze-open coin purses, warning disapproval even as the person nodded. In the few public places I frequent (okay, the grocery store), the mood is bland, because everyone’s emotional reactions are muffled, masks concealing the outrage beneath them ( rubbing alcohol is sold out?) and the giddy excitement of finding donuts on sale. My eyebrows are lifting all the weight, conveying smirks, frowns, and jaw-dropping surprise. My lipsticks sit neglected in a dark cabinet, never rolled up from their metal cases to see the world. Well, we have been covering our mouths for months now. When décolletage became too common to excite, the midriff was revealed.
In a time of lace-up boots, a glimpse of ankle could sear a man’s eye. Fashion dances back and forth, concealing then revealing, eroticizing certain parts of the body by first hiding them, then allowing tiny peeks.
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