The act of dressing up your younger brother in a pretty dress, red lipstick, pink eye-shadow, and a stack of necklaces is a universal throwback to a moment of stupidity. I remember doing it to my baby brother, too. Ready to get clicked, the resulting ensemble was a crack-up experience for the sisters and a regular “haunts me at 2 AM” moment for the brother. It was his main character moment, but in the wrong genre. Feeling misplaced, particularly MISGENDERED, the brother rebelled as if his identity had been lost in that sea of giggles. After more than fifteen years, I recognise the social and cultural POV of every brother whose definition of masculinity was nonchalance, stoic endurance, resistance to vulnerability, and especially the neglect of self-care, but I do not approve of it. I mean, who the hell gendered makeup?
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