Confession: this is my virgin blog.  I have been resisting blogging for a good while now.  So many of the blogs I have read seemed sketchy and improvised and the whole idea of writing one unsettled me, as if I were planning to take a stroll in my underwear.  Since I am the sort of person who puts on red lipstick before stepping outside to take in the newspaper (more on this in a minute), such a thought was, needless to say, disconcerting. But I am told that blogging has a unique power to attract and reach new readers, so I am willing to set aside my reluctance and give it a whirl.   I’m calling this one, “Seeing Red.”

I never leave my house without a red lipstick.  I own more than a dozen tubes, and there’s always one in my pocket or purse.  On the damnably rare occasion I have forgotten one, I duck into the nearest drug or department store to quickly pick up one for the road.  Like any addict, I can’t be without the stuff.  At home, I’ve got tubes tucked or strewn everywhere: bathroom, bedroom, front hall, and desk drawer.  There’s even one in the fridge, for those blisteringly hot New York days when I need to have my red on ice.

To me, a good (or even not so good) red lipstick is ammunition and armor, a good luck charm, a talisman and a fetish. Red wards off the blues, brightens the skies, lifts my spirits and stirs my soul—every single time. When you wear red lipstick, you can’t hide; red won’t let you.  Red commands attention; red instills confidence and power.  Red is bold, red is brilliant.  Red finishes off the perfect LBD, punches up a classic white T and jeans, turns a bathing suit and flip flops into a ready-for-my-close-up moment. Red lipstick adds gumption and guts to everything you put on. Yes, red does leave its mark: on the rims of glasses, napkins, and too many of your fresh-from-the cleaners clothes.  It’s one of the only downsides of red, but it’s worth it; think of it as your own personal trademark, your brand.  Even after more than two decades of wedded bliss, I embellish every birthday and Valentine’s Day card to my husband with a big, fat red-lipsticked smooch under my name.  

Yet I was not always so exclusive in my devotion to the incarnadine hue. In my youth, I dabbled with coral and plum, berry and rose.  No more. Now that I’ve achieved a certain, shall we say, patina, it’s red and only red, 24/7. I wear red lipstick when I’m walking the dog or sweating at the gym. Red, I’ve decided, is the new black. Or thirty—take your pick.

No matter how many red lipsticks I own, I remain on a perpetual quest for newest, best, the most perfect, Platonic ideal of a red. Red is my bounty, my reward, my grail.  Red, in all its guises, continues to beckon; red will always call. Not all reds are created equal. I’ve discovered that the Clinique’s Red, Red, Red is too greasy for me.  Its slow bleed creeps into the microscopic lines around my lips, resulting in a blurred and regrettably clown-like effect.  Shiseido’s Strong Red is too high voltage, as if the color had been mixed with neon; in contrast, my skin looks washed out and wan.  Maybelline’s Royal Red has a suspiciously teenybopper glow best suited to the under sixteen set.

While I might relish a bargain—L’Oreal’s Riche Colour (I own it in True Red, Drumbeat Red and Some Like It Scarlet) is a steal at 8.99, especially when you factor in the creamy, heavily pigmented formula and gleaming, case, weighty and satisfying in the palm as a gold ingot—I detest anything that feels cheap or flimsy in the hand or on the mouth.  Cheap and/or flimsy defeats the whole purpose of red, and sucks the magic cleanly out of it.  These days, along with the budget-friendly, L’Oreal, I’m partial to Chanel’s Fire. Here I must pause to take a deep and rapturous breath.  Chanel! The supremely stylish black tube bisected by a fat band of gold and emblazoned with an iconic crest of white interlocking C’s, is a pleasure to have and to hold.  The lipstick’s color, dark yet vibrant, is the perfect go-anywhere, made-for-anything shade. So far, it’s been the Mother of All Reds, primordial and perfect.  

But my Chanel swoon hasn’t left me so foggy that I can’t see other reds on the horizon. I recently discovered Poppy King’s Saint Red, a sheer lightweight formula that imparts an alluring, berry stained look.  Think of it as red au natural, the red of apple-cheeked mountain lass as she frolics on the buttercup dotted hillside, not the patent-leather-shiny red of a soigné city slicker.  It’s so comforting to know that there’s a red for every whim, every mood, every season under the sun.

Right now I’m lusting—and not so secretly, either, if you’re reading this—after Yves Saint Laurent’s new and drop-dead fabulous Rouge Volupté in either Red Temptation (a warm red with just a whiff of vine ripened tomato), Red Muse (a more classic Marilyn Monroe or Grace Kelly red) or Red Taboo (red with an intoxicating hint of Campari). The intricately wrought case, topped with its own mirror, is as cunningly designed as a Fabergé egg. And the lipstick itself is a confection as much as cosmetic. Creamy, dreamy and just about oozing color, Rouge Volupté may be the reds to end all reds.   The thirty-four dollar price tag is almost a deal breaker—notice the qualifying almost in that sentence.  I haven’t yet succumbed yet, but I have a feeling that that my capitulation—to high style, to luxury, to the sweet, siren song of the perfect, never-to-be outdone red—is right around the corner. I’m seeing red all right; seeing red and loving every minute of it.