I Wore Red Lipstick to My Mother's Funeral

My mother wore lipstick every day of my childhood. She wore it on the day my father left. She wore it on the day I left for college. She wore it in the hospital. She missed wearing it when she was dying. I wore red lipstick to her funeral. The lipstick was MAC Ruby Woo, $19.

My mother wore lipstick every day of my childhood. She wore it to drop me at school. She wore it to pick me up. She wore it to the parent-teacher conferences. She wore it to the grocery store. She wore it on the day my father left. She wore it on the day I left for college. She wore it in the hospital, the last time she was admitted, three weeks before she died.

She missed wearing it when she was dying. The hospital staff, in their kindness, did not let her wear it. The lipstick was, in her last weeks, in the bedside drawer, untouched.

I wore red lipstick to her funeral. The lipstick was MAC Ruby Woo, $19. The lipstick is, by 2026 standards, the most famous red lipstick in the world. The lipstick is also, by my standard, the red I had been wearing, on most days, for the previous five years.

Below is the story of that day, and the months around it. I have changed my mind about several things I used to believe about red lipstick, about makeup as armor, about makeup as tribute. I have opinions on what to skip. There is a brief history of how red lipstick went from a 5,000-year-old Sumerian paste to a $19 MAC bullet in 2026 Pittsburgh. And there is, at the end, an honest summary — because anyone who tells you makeup is frivolous has not, in fact, buried a parent.

The list

1. The morning of the funeral. I woke up at 5:30 AM in my brother's guest room in Pittsburgh. The funeral was at 10. I had been awake, on and off, since 3. The first thing I did, before coffee, before showering, was walk to the bathroom and put on the red lipstick. The lipstick was MAC Ruby Woo, $19, in the retro matte red that has been, since 2019, the red I reach for. I applied it, by my standard, the way I always apply it — straight from the bullet, no brush, no liner, two coats. The lipstick was, on my face, the same as it had been on every other day of the last five years. The lipstick was also, on that day, a different thing.

2. My mother and the lipstick. My mother was, by every measure, a lipstick person. She wore, by my memory, a pink-red (Estée Lauder Pure Color in "Rose Tea") for most of my childhood. She wore, by my memory, a darker red (Clinique Red #1) for the years after my father left. She wore, by my memory, a bright red (MAC Ruby Woo) for the last ten years. She had, in her bathroom drawer in Pittsburgh, eleven lipsticks in three shades. She had, by her own accounting, "the lipstick for every occasion." She had, by her own admission, "no idea what to do without it."

3. The lipstick in the hospital. My mother was admitted to UPMC Shadyside on a Tuesday in late September 2025. She had, by her doctor's description, "a few weeks at most." She brought, by my brother's description, "the lipstick, the compact, and the family photos." The lipstick was, in the hospital room, on the bedside table, untouched. The hospital staff, in their kindness, did not let her wear it. The lipstick was, in her last weeks, in the drawer, the way the morphine pump was on the IV pole.

4. The decision to wear red. I decided to wear red on the morning of the funeral. The decision was, by my standard, not a decision at all. The decision was, by my partner's description, "the only thing you could have worn." The decision was, by my grandmother's description (she called from Lyon the night before), "exactly what your mother would have wanted." The decision was, by my own description, "defiance, tribute, performance, and a refusal to pretend that death is not also a day you have to show up for."

5. The funeral itself. The funeral was at St. Paul's Cathedral in Pittsburgh, the cathedral my mother had attended, by her own accounting, "every Sunday for forty-three years." I sat in the front row. My partner sat beside me. My brother read the eulogy. My father's sister sang "Ave Maria." The lipstick was, on my face, the way it always was — bright, matte, slightly imperfect. The lipstick was, on that day, also a flag. Three women came up to me after the service and said, by some version of the same words, "your mother would have loved that you wore the red."

6. The partner's reaction. My partner noticed the lipstick at the funeral. My partner did not, by his description, notice the lipstick on the way to the funeral. My partner did, by his description, "notice the lipstick the moment I saw you sitting in the front row." My partner said, later that night, by his description, "the lipstick was the thing that made me know you were going to be okay." My partner was, by his own admission, "more right about that than I have ever been about anything."

7. The grandmother's reaction. My grandmother is 89 and lives in Lyon. She called, the night before the funeral, and said, by her own description, "I am so glad you are wearing the red. Your mother wore the red for your father's funeral. Your mother wore the red for her mother's funeral. The red is the lipstick of our family." The grandmother was, by her own accounting, "the one who taught your mother to wear the red in the first place." The red was, by the grandmother's standard, "the lipstick of the women in this family."

8. The next day, the next week. I wore the lipstick the next day. I wore the lipstick the day after that. I wore the lipstick, on most days, for the next three weeks. The lipstick was, by my standard, "the armor." The lipstick was, by my partner's description, "the way you told the world you were still in the room." The lipstick was, by my therapist's description, "the thing that helped you keep showing up." The lipstick was, in 2026, the red I had been wearing for five years. The lipstick was, after the funeral, the same lipstick with a different weight.

That is eight moments around the lipstick. The lipstick was $19. The lipstick was, in 2026, the most famous red in the world. The lipstick was, on the day of my mother's funeral, also the most important thing I wore.

What I have changed my mind about

A few beliefs I held in 2015, that the last ten years have killed.

I used to think makeup was frivolous. Makeup is, by my standard, not frivolous. Makeup is, by my standard, the way I show up to the day. Makeup is, by my standard, the way I tell the world I have decided to be in the room. The makeup was, on the day of my mother's funeral, also the way I told the world that the women in my family have always shown up.

I used to think red lipstick was for special occasions. Red lipstick is, by my standard, for every occasion. Red lipstick is, by my mother's standard, for "every day that you decide to put on your face." Red lipstick is, by my grandmother's standard, "the lipstick of the women in this family, every day, not just the special ones." Red lipstick is, in 2026, the lipstick I wear on most days.

I used to think makeup was about looking good. Makeup is, by my standard, not about looking good. Makeup is, by my standard, about the act of putting it on. The act is, by my therapist's description, "a ritual of showing up for yourself." The act is, by my mother's description, "the way I tell myself I am ready for the day." The act is, by my standard, more important than the result.

I used to think the brand mattered. MAC Ruby Woo is, by every measurement, the most famous red lipstick in the world. MAC Ruby Woo is also, by every measurement, $19 at any drugstore. The brand is, by my standard, less important than the ritual. The ritual is, by my standard, the lipstick in the hand, the mirror, the morning, the day.

I used to think I would wear a "softer" lipstick to the funeral. The "softer" lipstick is, by my standard, the lie. The softer lipstick says, by its marketing, "I am sad, I am grieving, I am in mourning." The red lipstick says, by its existence, "I am here. I am still here. The women in my family are still here."

What to skip when wearing red to a funeral

If I were advising a friend who was about to wear red lipstick to a parent's funeral, I would tell them to skip these things.

Asking permission. The red lipstick is, by my standard, not a permission request. The red lipstick is, by my standard, the decision of the person wearing it. The decision is, by my grandmother's standard, "between you and the mirror."

The "subtle" red. The subtle red is, by my standard, the red that doesn't commit. The subtle red says, by its marketing, "I am grieving but also not making a statement." The statement is, by my standard, the point. The statement is, by my mother's standard, "the red is the red."

The matching outfit. The outfit is, by my standard, not the point. The lipstick is the point. The outfit can be anything. The lipstick is the thing that everyone will remember.

The "what will people think." The people who matter will, by my standard, understand. The people who do not understand are, by my standard, not the audience for this decision. The decision is, in the end, between you and the dead.

The waterproof formula. The waterproof formula is, by my standard, the formula that does not come off when you cry. The crying is, by my standard, the point. The crying is, by my standard, also the lipstick. The non-waterproof formula is, by my standard, the one that comes off when you cry and goes back on when you stop.

The explanation. The red lipstick is, by my standard, not an explanation. The red lipstick is, by my standard, an act. The act is, by my standard, its own explanation. The act is, in 2026, the way the women in my family show up.

A brief history

Red lipstick is, by every measure, one of the oldest cosmetics in human history. The first recorded use of red lipstick was in 2500 BCE Sumer, where women crushed red gemstones and wore the powder on their lips. The Egyptians, around 1500 BCE, used a red paste made of red ochre, carmine, and tallow. Cleopatra's lipstick was, by every measure, the first celebrity lipstick.

The ancient Greeks and Romans also wore red lipstick, although Roman men wore it as a sign of status. The early Christian church condemned red lipstick as "the devil's paint" — a designation that lasted, in various forms, until the 19th century.

The modern red lipstick industry began in 1884, when the French perfumer Guerlain launched its first lipstick. The 1910s brought the first "named" red — Elizabeth Arden's "Red Door" red, named for the salon's red door. The 1930s brought the lipstick as we know it — Guerlain's Rouge Automatique (1937) was the first swivel-tube lipstick.

The 1950s brought the cultural normalization of red lipstick, in part due to Elizabeth Taylor, Marilyn Monroe, and Audrey Hepburn. The 1960s brought the countercultural backlash, when the "natural look" briefly displaced red. The 1970s brought the disco-era red. The 1980s brought the power red. The 1990s brought the "brown red." The 2000s brought the "everyday red."

The 2010s brought the indie red — the $20-$30 lipstick from brands like NARS, Charlotte Tilbury, and MAC. The 2020s brought the "wear-it-every-day" red. The red was, by 2026 standards, no longer reserved for special occasions. The red was, by 2026 standards, a daily lipstick. The red was, by 2026 standards, the lipstick of the women in my family.

The honest summary

I wore red lipstick to my mother's funeral. The lipstick was MAC Ruby Woo, $19. The lipstick was, on that day, defiance. The lipstick was, on that day, tribute. The lipstick was, on that day, performance. The lipstick was, on that day, the way I told the world that the women in my family show up.

What works for me: a red lipstick, applied without thinking, in the morning, before coffee, before the day. The red is, by my standard, the armor. The red is, by my standard, the way I tell the world I am still in the room.

What does not work for me, and may not work for you: the idea that makeup is frivolous. Makeup is, by my standard, not frivolous. Makeup is, by my standard, the ritual of showing up. The honest summary is, in the end, this: the lipstick is not frivolous. The lipstick is, on the day you bury your mother, the most important thing you wear.

Six months later, I still wear the red. The red is, on most days, the same MAC Ruby Woo. The red is, on most days, the same ritual. The red is, on most days, the same act of defiance, tribute, and performance. The red is, in 2026, the lipstick of the women in my family. The red is, in 2026, the lipstick of me.