The Forbidden Red Lipstick

 Red. The color of love, power, and defiance. As a little girl, I always dreamed of the day I’d wear it—bold and beautiful—on my baraat. A Pakistani bride, draped in crimson, with lips painted to match the moment. It was supposed to be a day of joy, a day where I felt like the most beautiful version of myself.

But my red lipstick was a crime.

I still remember the sharp voice of my mother-in-law cutting through the celebration. “Wipe it off,” she commanded, her eyes burning with disapproval. My heart sank. This was my dream, my day. But in her world, my choices didn’t matter. I was expected to obey. To shrink. To dull myself down into a shade she approved of.

That day, I wiped away my red lips. But a part of me—the part that loved, that dreamed, that dared—never forgot.

The Color of Control

After marriage, I learned that my lipstick was only the beginning. My mother-in-law despised red, or maybe she despised what it represented—confidence, power, individuality. Every time I reached for it, she made sure to remind me that “decent” women don’t wear such shades. “Only shameless women paint their lips like that,” she’d say, her voice laced with disgust.

Instead, she handed me a dark brown lipstick. A shade that made me look tired, lifeless. A color that suited her idea of how I should be—subdued, unnoticed, controlled.

At first, I complied. Maybe it wasn’t worth the fight. Maybe letting go of red was a small price to pay for peace in the household. But deep inside, I felt something slipping away—the joy of looking in the mirror and seeing me.

Every time I wore that dull, brown lipstick, I felt like I was fading.

The Battle for Self-Expression

But it didn’t stop at lipstick. Her disapproval stretched into everything—my clothes, my laughter, my choices. I was always too much or not enough in her eyes. If I dressed up, I was seeking attention. If I stayed quiet, I was being rude. If I smiled too much, I had no shame. If I wore makeup, I was trying to impress someone.

And every time I wore red lipstick, it was a battle. She would curse my mother as if my confidence was her doing. She would lash out, create a scene, make it clear that in her house, my self-expression was unacceptable.

It wasn’t just about color—it was about control.

The Rebellion

One day, after yet another argument, I stood in front of the mirror, looking at a woman I barely recognized. I had spent so long trying to keep the peace that I had forgotten what made me feel beautiful, what made me feel alive.

I reached for my red lipstick.

As I glided it over my lips, I felt something stir inside me—something fierce, something unbreakable. It wasn’t just a color. It was my silent rebellion, my way of reclaiming myself.

I walked past her that day, red lips unshaken, and she noticed. Of course, she did. The tantrum followed—the same curses, the same accusations. But this time, I didn’t flinch. I didn’t wipe it off. I didn’t let her words chip away at me.

I simply smiled.

Because for the first time, I wasn’t afraid.

The Power of Red

Today, I wear red lipstick whenever I want. Not just because it suits me, but because it reminds me of something important—I own myself.

It reminds me that I was never the problem. The problem was the people who feared my confidence, the ones who wanted me to shrink into the dull shades they approved of.

But I will never dull my shine for them again.

So I wear my red lipstick with pride. Because it is not just a color. It is my power.