Looking back at my first couple of years in college, I see a pretty prominent theme: I like to blend in.

I didn’t want to stand out in the crowd, but hide in the background. Attention of any kind from strangers — positive or negative — sent me into fits of anxiety. I wasn’t antisocial, but I was really shy.

I even remember my first roommate mentioning the way I “hid” behind my bangs, like Violet from the Disney movie “The Incredibles.”

And yet, from a young age, I loved makeup. Dramatic eyes, ruby lips, you name it, I tried it. But never in public, and certainly nothing that would draw any attention for any reason. It was far rarer to see me in makeup than completely bare-faced.

These two facts about myself may seem unrelated, but hear me out. Over the past couple of years, my morning routine has evolved to include a makeup routine. The better I began to feel about myself, the more I enjoyed my makeup. I got to play with colors and shadows that made my eyes pop and my cheekbones look sharp enough to cut glass. The makeup ruined any sort of social camouflage I’d so carefully worked up in previous years. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating.

I won’t lie, I’ve made mistakes. I’m sure there were days when I walked out of my apartment and left strangers and friends wondering “What was she thinking this morning?” Even positive feedback, such as “I like your eyelashes,” was terrifying.

But, as with many mistakes, they were wondrous ones. I learned from them. I learned that raccoon eyes are not a good choice. I learned that I care a lot less about what people think that I’d previously believed. I learned that people care about my appearance about the same amount as they care about grass in winter.

So, a while back, I broke out the one thing I’d continued to avoid — the red lipstick. Looking back, it seems strange that I’d avoided this iconic look so fervently. Not only had it come back “in,” it had never really left. But I’m not Marilyn Monroe, nor am I Audrey Hepburn.

See, in my mind, despite the fact that nine out of 10 people could give a flying hockey puck about my appearance, I wasn’t allowed the red lip. It was too daring, too glam for a plain Jane like me.

But one day, I’d finally had my fill of caring so much about what others thought. I wear my makeup because I like it and it makes me feel good about myself. I don’t wear makeup for other people. It’s one of the few times I’d argue being selfish is a good thing.

So, I bought a 99 cent tube of fire engine red lipstick and wore it to class and work. Looking back, it was an awful color on me — far too orangey for my cool skin tone. I probably looked more like Bozo the Clown than Taylor Swift.

But no one cared. It didn’t matter that it looked like I’d taken a Crayola crayon, melted it down and spread it all over my lips. The only person who cared was … me.

Now, a year or so later, you’ll rarely see me without my red lips (though I have a much better color for my skintone than I did previously). They are as much a part of my routine now as brushing my teeth.

Everytime I line my lips, every time I brush the red creme on top of the liner, I’m reminded that this face is mine and mine alone. What I do with it is my choice — other opinions don’t matter at the end of the day.

My lipstick is my reminder of the struggle it’s been to accept myself and to a lot myself the same amount of respect I give other people.

I may not be Taylor Swift, Marilyn Monroe or Audrey Hepburn. But I am me, and that in itself gives me the right to wear the red without shame.

And you know what? The more I think about it, the less I want to be Taylor, Marilyn or Audrey. I’m pretty happy being Kjerstine.

Kjerstine Trooien is a staff writer for The Dakota Student. She can be reached at [email protected].