Prison Took My Freedom. Makeup Gave It Back.

Feeling beautiful makes it worth the risk

Hey y’all,

I’m officially an LA resident as of today! AHHHHHHH!! New city, new vibe, new energy. One of my first orders of business? A honey-buckin’ Cowboy Carter party at The Peppermint Club. Chile, my boxes haven’t even made it down from the Bay yet, and already I’m maneuvering from bar to club to after-party like I’m from here. I met up with one of my best friends (who also recently moved down here), and we had a timeeeee.

Mrs. Carter if you nasty…

People keep asking, “Why LA?” and to that I say, “Why not?” While I am hoping to gain a creative and diverse community here, ultimately, I’m moving here on a gut feeling (and a ‘lil bit of astrocartography). I usually tell people that I’m here for a “change of scenery,” and it’s okay that my answer is simply that. Not all your life moves will be because of some soul-wrenching, world-defining reason—sometimes you’ll do things just because it feels right. Oakland was feeling stagnant, and as someone who thrives in dynamic environments, I wanted to switch it up. The end. And while I’ll miss Oakland and all my homies still there (hey y’all!), I’m just an hour flight away.

This Week’s Story

I hesitated to publish this week’s story. Not because the story isn’t good; in fact, it’s a phenomenal story, and I’m eager for you to learn more about what’s going through the minds of incarcerated women. I hesitated because this week’s writer, Lanae Tipton, has been identified as Black by the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, even though she is of Hispanic and Asian descent. I decided to move forward because this magazine is for Black womxn—that x is important as it allows for all people who identify as Black women to feel included. She embraces this identity, and so I’m ecstatic to share her story here. This story is in collaboration with Empowerment Avenue, an organization founded by Emily Nonko to normalize the inclusion of incarcerated artists and writers in mainstream media.

Take care,
Anayo Awuzie
EIC of Carefree Media

In Prison, Beauty is Freedom And Makeup Is My Joy

by Lanae Tipton

In the secluded area under the stairs of my rambunctious dorm, I waited. Adrenaline pulsed through me as sweat dripped down my arms, coating my hands in anticipation of my new purchase. You can call me an addict. My tastes are ever-changing, never ordering the same thing twice, and, to my luck, my supplier just got a new batch in.

Anxiously looking around, I spotted the dealer. I checked to see if the coast was clear before inclining my head once, signaling it was okay to approach. Knowing we were on borrowed time, the risk of being caught allowed no time for pleasantries.

We positioned our bodies to act as shields. Then, the dealer opened her hand to reveal the new product. "These are all of the new glitters and shimmers," she said. "I got some new lipsticks, too, if you’re interested." My mouth watered as I took in the rainbow of colors. Eyeshadow, all packaged in clear plastic wrapping, each shade was about the size of a pinto bean. Prices range from $15 to $20 for my specific craving: sparkles.

I hurriedly picked from the display and concealed my purchase in my state-provided sock. I made the transaction in postal stamps (a common prison currency) and glided back into the commotion of prison life, excited and impatient to try on my new eyeshadow.

Makeup is highly sought after in women's prisons. Makeup itself is not illegal, but quality products from some of the best brands, like Tarte or Nars, are considered contraband. It is completely harmless but also rigorously hunted down by officers, at least by the ones who aren't smuggling it in. But by taking the makeup risks that I do, I am able to express and enhance my beauty through creativity. There is such a freedom in beauty that prison cannot take away, which makes these unharmful, yet illegal, choices worth the consequences I could possibly have to face. As incarceration has made every attempt to dehumanize and demoralize me, my beauty is one thing they could not strip. It's the last hold I have of the woman I was before prison's unforgiving grip.

If you're caught with even the simplest item, like lip gloss or any other form of contraband makeup, you will be punished with phone, commissary, and even visitation restrictions. It's worth the risk because the makeup sold legally on commissary consists of a sad array of products, including an uncontrollable smudgy mess that's considered eyeliner, three shades of watery foundation, and a sad choice of poorly pigmented lipsticks. There is a good-quality, name-brand waterproof mascara—the sole exception. As a makeup lover, they gave me no choice but to go the illegal route.

I couldn’t wait to use my newest purchase as I sat down the next morning to do my daily makeup routine. I arranged everything on the small table in my cell and began. Grabbing my #2 pencil, I gently rubbed it against my metal bunk. I used the dust created by the friction to shape and shade my eyebrows. Then, I dipped one end of my makeshift Q-tip brush into a puddle of foundation to clean them up.

I pulled out my RoseArt colored pencils purchased in commissary, and plunged their sharpened black points into a cup of water. I used the pencil as a smudge-free alternative for eyeliner, swiping on a catlike wing. Once I finished, I dug out my vast collection of contraband eyeshadow. I selected a beautiful iridescent pale-pink glitter and expertly placed it in the corner of my eyes with my pinky finger. To set the look, I powdered my face with a generic brand of baby powder to keep the oily, transfer-prone foundation in place, applied mascara, and coated my lips in an illegal sunset-pink lipstick.

Satisfied with the final look, I smacked my lipstick into place and replaced my contraband makeup back in their various hiding places around my cell and set out for my day. My brown skin glowed with an easy confidence, and I felt naturally beautiful.

Compliments flew left and right as I walked to different destinations around the unit. I headed to the chow hall, but I was intercepted by an officer on the way. It was almost as if they could smell the contraband on my face. Seething, the officer demanded to know where my makeup came from.

"Off of commissary," I recited from my well-practiced script.

"Bullshit,” they spat, demanding my housing location and cell number. I was confident in my hiding skills, so I calmly complied. I stood by as the bloodhound radioed their pack, who undoubtedly would be spending the next hour turning my cell upside down.

Forty-five minutes and a full strip search later, I returned to my wholly destroyed cell. Going straight to my hiding locations, I checked each location with a sigh of relief. It was all still there! After reorganizing my cell, I had nowhere else to go. So I packed all of my makeup together for the remainder of my day in the safest hiding place I knew best, my bra.

Later that night, I got ready for a shower. I rolled up the makeup bundle in my towel and grabbed my shower necessities. But after I stepped out of the shower, I swiped the towel off of the shelf, unraveling it in the same motion, forgetful of the bulge within. I watched my most prized possessions soar across the open expanse of the shower area and land directly in the open sewer drain. All my makeup—eyeshadows and glitters, about 120 shades in all—swirled down the drain along with my pride for wanting to look beautiful despite being incarcerated. Feeling beautiful in my skin was something nobody could take away from me, not even the state.

I scrambled after the makeup and wrapped myself in my disloyal towel, peering down the never-ending black hole that just consumed my life. With tears in my eyes, I returned to my cell in a daze. I sat on my bed as tears spilled down my cheeks, shaking from immediate withdrawals.

For me, makeup isn’t just a silly, frivolous thing. It’s a familiar routine that I turn to for comfort as I carry out my incarceration for the next 14 years.

I’ve been infatuated with makeup, beauty, and glam since I was a preteen, and now at 23, it remains a huge part of my life. It is a positive tether to keep me grounded in my identity despite being in prison. With hopes to be home by my 30th birthday (thanks to potential parole in four years), I have gradually replaced my collection of eyeshadows and continue to express my freedom through makeup's intoxicating pull. Keeping my skills honed for the coming day, I'll be reintroduced to the real thing again. Until then, makeup will be a colorful beacon towards my freedom.

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Lanae Tipton is a writer, makeup lover, stands for women’s empowerment, and is currently incarcerated in Texas.