Lipstick Chor !!

Drama in One Shade of Betrayal

The other day, I made a mistake.

Not the usual “forgot to soak the daal” kind. No. This was serious. I used my daughter Aaru’s lipstick. One quick swipe before a Zoom call, because I couldn’t find my own (which, by the way, she probably took last month and never returned). And just like that, I found myself in the middle of a sansanikhez family scandal.

She stormed into the room, glanced at my face, and gasped like I’d eaten her secret stash of macaroons.

“Mummmmmaaaa! Are you wearing my lipstick?”

“Uh… maybe?” I said, trying to play it cool, like a woman who hadn’t just committed emotional theft in broad daylight.

She looked at me like I’d raided her UPI. “That’s personal! That’s my thing. You didn’t ask! You’ve crossed a line. This is a complete invasion of my personal space.”

I blinked. Was I being schooled on boundaries by the same Aaru who borrows my bags, hairbrush, jewellery, sunscreen, socks, AND had the audacity to “permanently adopt” my Uniqlo tops because “they look more chic on me”?

Let me remind everyone: this is the same girl who eats from my plate without asking, watches my shows before I get to them, and recently took my tote bag to carry her water bottle, lip balm, and attitude.

But apparently, lipstick? Lipstick is sacred ground.

I tried reasoning. “Aaru, when you were three, you used to draw on the walls with my lipsticks. I didn’t say a word.”

“That’s different. I was a toddler. You’re an adult. You should know better.”

Know better. Really?

I raised her to be strong, independent, and assertive. I just didn’t realise that meant she’d be asserting herself against me. These Gen Z kids come equipped with boundary-setting toolkits, self-worth affirmations, and a zero-tolerance policy for borrowing (unless they’re the borrower, of course).

What’s mine is hers.

What’s hers is… hers, with a lock, a password, and emotional disclaimers.

Are they selfish? Are we over-parenting? Or is this just hormonally-charged teen angst wearing a Zara shrug and quoting Instagram therapists?

Either way, I’ve now been unofficially blacklisted from touching her stuff — kajal, crop tops, cold coffee — all off limits.

And yes, she’s still upset. She walks past me with the look of someone who’s had her trust broken by a 90s drama serial character.

So, I’ve gone and bought a new lipstick. My own. Slightly darker, slightly sassier.

And I’ve labelled it — in bold, capital letters — “MUMMA’S. DO NOT TOUCH.”

Let’s see how long that boundary holds.

With love, confusion, and slightly fabulous lips,

Glum Iris

(Mother. Macaroon Thief by Association. Occasional Cosmetic Offender