My son and his wife shamed me for wearing red lipstick. I decided to teach them a lesson…

At seventy-five, people often expect you to embrace your “golden years,” slow down, and, as the saying goes, “act your age.” But who exactly defines what it means to act your age? To me, it’s about doing what brings you joy and keeps you feeling alive. For me, that joy comes from wearing red lipstick. I’ve worn it for as long as I can remember—fiery, bold, and unapologetic, it represents the energy I’ve carried with me through the years. However, it seems that not everyone shares my sentiment, particularly my son and his wife.

Yesterday, as I was preparing for a family dinner, it felt different from the ones I usually looked forward to. As I carefully applied my favorite shade of red lipstick, “Ruby Flame,” in my bedroom, my son suddenly appeared at the door.

“Mom, you look like a desperate old clown trying to cling to your youth,” he remarked, catching me off guard. I had expected him to check on me or perhaps even compliment me, but instead, his words cut deep. He chuckled as if it were a harmless joke, but I knew he meant it. My heart sank. I stared at him, hoping he’d realize the cruelty in his words, but he just stood there, waiting for me to wipe off the lipstick—a part of my identity.

Then, as if on cue, his wife Sarah joined him, a smug smile on her face. “Oh, I agree with Steph,” she added, her voice dripping with condescension. “Older people shouldn’t wear red lipstick. You should stick to what others your age are doing.”

My heart raced. Who were they to dictate what I could and couldn’t wear? And what exactly did they think I should emulate in these “other people”? I’ve never been one to follow the crowd, and I certainly wasn’t going to start now.

Without missing a beat, I looked her in the eye and said, “Honey, why don’t you mind your own business?” Her stunned expression was priceless. She didn’t expect me to stand up for myself, and she quickly backtracked, mumbling an apology. “We just didn’t want you to look like a clown,” she whispered.

The audacity! I shot a fierce look between my son and his wife, who were now both awkwardly standing there. My son, trying to lighten the mood, awkwardly quipped, “Okay, Mom, enjoy the circus.” But his attempt only fueled my anger further. Sarah joined in with a forced laugh, and they left me standing there, feeling a mix of anger and sadness.

For a few minutes, I felt crushed. I stood in front of my mirror, questioning myself. Was red lipstick really inappropriate for someone my age? Should I conform to their idea of how a woman my age should look? The sadness weighed on me like a heavy stone, but then something shifted. That sadness transformed into anger. No, I refused to let them dictate the course of my life. I refused to let them strip away the parts of me that made me who I am. If they thought they could bully me into submission, they were in for a surprise. I was going to teach them a lesson they wouldn’t forget.

Over the next few days, I kept my plans to myself. Not even my friends at our monthly bridge game knew what I was plotting. My pride had been wounded by Stephen and Sarah, and I wasn’t about to let it slide.

Then it hit me—the perfect opportunity to make my point was just around the corner: the annual neighborhood block party. It was always a big event, with everyone dressing up, a talent show, and even a little parade down the block this year. It was the ideal stage to deliver my message.

Over the next three days, I gathered everything I needed. I made a few trips to the craft store and even dug out an old outfit from the back of my closet. By the time the day of the block party arrived, I was ready.

It was a bright day as I made my way down the street toward the party. I spotted Stephen and Sarah mingling with the neighbors, completely unaware of what was about to happen. As I approached, I had to suppress a smile. “You made it, Mom!” Stephen called out as I neared. But as he took in my appearance, his eyes widened. I was wearing a vibrant red dress that hugged my curves perfectly, topped off with a wide-brimmed red hat adorned with a big feather.

But the real showstopper was my makeup. I went all out—bright blush, bold eyeliner, and, of course, my signature red lipstick. I looked every bit the grand dame, a woman unafraid to draw attention.

Sarah was visibly shocked. “Edith, what on earth are you wearing?” she asked, her voice a mix of horror and confusion.

I flashed a confident smile. “Oh, nothing special, just a little project I put together. I figured I’d embrace that ‘clown’ look you were so concerned about.”

Stephen looked like he wished the ground would swallow him whole. “Mom, this is…” He trailed off, struggling for words.

“Fabulous?” I finished for him. “Why, thank you, dear.”

Before they could say anything else, the parade was about to start. I hadn’t told anyone, but I had signed up to be the grand marshal. As the music started and we began to march down the street, I waved to the crowd, blowing kisses to my supportive neighbors. All the while, I kept an eye on Stephen and Sarah, who stood in the crowd looking mortified.

After the parade, I made my way back to where they were standing by the punch bowl, still trying to process what had just happened. They seemed at a loss for words, so I decided to break the ice.

“You know, I think there’s something you two could learn from this,” I said, my tone firm but gentle. They looked at me, waiting. “I’ve learned that life is too short to live by someone else’s rules. Whether it’s wearing red lipstick, a red dress, or anything else that makes me happy, I’ll do what I please. And if anyone has a problem with that, well, that’s their issue, not mine.”

Stephen shuffled his feet, while Sarah cast a nervous glance downward. Finally, Stephen spoke, his voice softer than usual. “Mom, we didn’t mean to hurt you. We just… didn’t think about how our words might affect you.”

I nodded. “Words do matter. I know you didn’t mean to be hurtful, but it’s my job as your mother to remind you of that.”

There was a pause as my words sank in. Finally, Sarah spoke up. “Edith, you’re right. I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t realize how important that lipstick is to you.”

I softened a bit, offering a smile. “Sweetheart, it’s not just the lipstick. It’s about staying true to who you are, no matter what others might think. You’re both still young—you’ll learn that one day.”

Stephen reached out to hug me. “Thanks, Mom. And for what it’s worth, you looked amazing out there today.”

I winked and replied, “Damn right I did.”

The block party continued, and even after the initial shock of my bold entrance wore off, the lesson I intended to impart lingered. Sarah and Stephen were more thoughtful and quiet after our conversation, and I could see the wheels turning in their minds as they reflected on what I had said.

As the sun began to set and the party wound down, I sat on a bench, watching the children play and the parents chat. Stephen and Sarah stood off to the side, talking quietly. After a while, they approached me.

“Mom,” Stephen began, his tone more reflective than usual. “We were just talking, and we realized that maybe we’ve been a little too… rigid in our views. We’re sorry if we made you feel like you needed to change who you are.”

Sarah nodded. “We were so focused on what we thought was right that we didn’t stop to consider your feelings. We might have taken for granted the strength and confidence you’ve always shown.”

My heart softened as I looked at them. It wasn’t easy for them to admit they were wrong, but I appreciated the effort. “Thank you,” I said, feeling a wave of warmth. “It means a lot to hear you say that.”

The lesson was learned, and we moved forward with a renewed sense of respect and understanding. Life is too short to be anything but true to oneself, and that’s a lesson worth teaching at any age.