Do Not Be Certain of Yourself Until The Day You Die

"Your makeup is a little too . . . dramatic," she sniffs. 

Um, who asked you? 

We were standing in her kitchen, she being freshly engaged, devoid of face paint besides a faint hint of shadow in the dark recesses of a crease. While her nails were brushed with a refined clear topcoat, I noticed that beneath her stockings (she having kicked off her shoes) her toes sported maroon lacquer.

I didn't remotely take her words to heart, since, frankly, I didn't particularly ask nor care for her opinion. 

Now she has two babies gamboling about at her feet, and she sails into shul wearing red lipstick and red nail polish. Yes, on her hands.

See? It's fun to wear color, isn't it?

Or the one who made snide references to my gray eyeshadow, and after years of "tame" makeup wear suddenly showed up looking fabulous with Mac Carbon (black) on her lids? 

 

After situations like these, I always wonder: When do I get to go around offering "advice" to those who didn't ask for it? Did I permit myself to say to either these two then, "Well, your complexion could certainly use a little coverage" or "Your eyes are dying for some mascara" or "How about a swipe of pink on those lips?" 

To quote Doug Heffernan: "Shutty!"