It all started with a tube of Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers and an elementary school game of Truth or Dare. My dare: Eat the lip balm. I remember thinking, “Why not?” It had always been tasty when I licked it off my lips. But somehow the “flavor” didn’t quite hit. It was shockingly plastic; its synthetic formula made all the more apparent after buttering my tongue with its petroleum base.
I wound up with cola-flavored beeswax squished between each incisor. It was like getting a mouthful of too much peanut butter, but worse, because Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers is not food. You lick and you learn.
While I was put off from soft drink-themed cosmetics for a while after that, the dare didn’t make lip stuff any less endearing to me. Tinted, shimmery, or flavored, it was the gateway grooming product for the exact age when you start thinking about your lips and the possibility of putting them on other people’s. My adolescent collection of lip balms included pomegranate Burt’s Bees, peppermint Bath & Body Works, Smith’s Rosebud Salve, Maybelline Baby Lips, Bonne Bell Chocolate Lip Lix, and Naturistics Sweet Lips Kiwi “fresh squeezed lip gloss.” At school, a pot of Carmex was spotted in every purse and glove compartment; you could always smell its camphor aroma when someone reapplied. I read in a teen magazine that Smallville actress Kristin Kreuk used Bag Balm — an old-timey salve for sore cow udders — as a lip-moisturizing staple, prompting me to buy a tin of the goo to smear on my mouth as well. (In retrospect, we were always just one celebrity influencer away from beef tallow.)
Back then, your choice in lip balm seemed to matter. It was a signifier of what kind of person you were — like a “Which Spice Girl Are You?” quiz. (Or more simply, it indicated whether your mom let you shop at MAC.) Were you a natural “I have nothing to hide” cherry ChapStick, or a “I’ve kissed at least one boy but not in a slutty way” Natural Glow Watermelon Glossy Lip Balm? Was your over-abundance of tinted lip balms an indication of sexual activity, or were you just trying too hard? Lip balm has always carried these implications based on where, how, and when you applied it (in the presence of someone you hoped to kiss?). Chapped lips can never be dealt with in a normal way.
During my formative years, tinted lip balms were the no-make-up makeup du jour, more effective in conceit than pigment. If anyone noticed I was wearing one, it was vehemently denied. Who, me? My virgin lips are naturally glowing with this passionfruit aura! But I envied girls who globbed on the sticky, glittery stuff with confidence, sharing it in the school bathroom as a communal resource. Swapping your lippie was a bonding rite — a true gesture of kinship to arm your friend with something that could amplify her beauty, potentially to the detriment of your own. It’s dangerous to go alone; take this.
Like an ever-expanding universe, the possibilities of lip balm have only grown since those early years. We discuss lip combos, filler, lip kits and lip flips, cupid’s bow highlighter, overlining, and gloss versus matte. Social media has become a theater for all manner of swiping and pouting. Addison Rae’s method of applying lip gloss by holding the tube in her mouth and removing the wand has become its own much-replicated performance.
Lip balms still symbolize affiliation and identity, even more so as beauty culture becomes exhaustively widespread. The tube you pull out of your purse — or wear as a charm dangling from it — telegraphs the type of beauty culture you subscribe (or aspire) to. It’s more than a consumer choice; it’s an endorsement of “Because I’m Worth It”-ism. When Glossier’s original Balm Dotcom launched in 2014, it became an incarnation of as much cool-girl cred as could be ascribed to a 15-milliliter dose of expensive Vaseline. Summer Fridays’ tinted lip balms transformed into a #CleanGirl starter kit staple. Then Hailey Bieber’s Rhode Peptide Lip Treatments made phone cases a status symbol, held in the squishy embrace of a brilliantly marketed merch product.
As the owner of almost every Balm Dotcom and several tubes of Dior Addict Lip Glow, Naturium Phyto-Glow Lip Balm, Lanolips, and Rom&nd Glasting Melting Balm, I can safely say two things. One: When it comes to status or viral balms, you will like some and feel betrayed by others, which will look totally different on you than they do on the dozen influencers who posted shop links in their TikToks. And two, perhaps harder to (ahem) swallow: Most balms are little more than harmless, misguided attempts to round out the pre-fab idea of beauty that we carry around in our heads. I say this as someone who bought a $41 Givenchy lip balm that makes me look like I’ve sucked on a raspberry popsicle (derogatory). The tube may be a talisman, but the goo is just a cocktail of cosmetic ingredients. At the end of the day, once you’re wearing it, no one actually knows what’s on your lips but you.
As sophisticated as lip balms have become, I’ve never been tempted to sample another flavor. (Though if you ask me, the sadly limited-edition Glossier Hot Cocoa Balm Dotcom does taste the best.) Still, urban legend has it that a person ingests four to nine pounds of lipstick in a lifetime through snacking, drinking, and the inevitable licking. Given that a career in the beauty industry has loaded me up on lippies far past anything my seventh-grade self could’ve imagined, I’m sure I must have ingested about twice that amount.
I never leave the house without at least three on my person. Some promise to plump, some to hydrate, and all end up lining my stomach. That’s beauty for you: Consume, then be consumed.
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