Raised by a Danish socialist feminist in the suburban landscape of Delta, British Columbia, I longed for all things girlie. Yet nary a wish for frilliness was granted: my hair was short, my clothing gender neutral and my footwear sensible clogs. Coupled with my rye bread and liver pâté lunches, one might have called me a bit of a playground eccentric. I think I was just a dyke in the making. Taller than the boys until the 10th grade, I spent my girlhood wishing, longing for even an ounce of femininity. If I had only been a tomboy as my mother wanted. No matter. I went on to university, became a cord-wearing, card-carrying feminist who listened to the Indigo Girls and only wore natural fragrance.

I believed, as my mother had taught me, that boys respect girls who can fend for themselves. I believed the evolution toward gender equality would be coupled with a renouncement of chivalry, that manly gestures and ladylike behavior were oddities best left in the South or back in Edwardian gardens.

But all of that changed when I met a tomboy who set me free. On her playground, she was a boyish girl who’d wanted to be accepted for her muddy trousers, her impressive belches and her love of softball.

By my OCD-dominated mid-20s, I finally had the confidence and money to throw myself into a cosmetics-counter-inspired world of product fetishism and glorious girliness.

To this day, my mother wonders what I’m doing with my massive collection of glosses and perfume and shadows and lotions.

“You’re a bright feminist lesbian environmentalist scholar, Mette,” she tells me. “What on earth do you need all that stuff for?” Her nose wrinkles.

My mother believes that a love of product is a direct correlation to low self-esteem and issues surrounding gender and identity. She hasn’t bought lipstick since the ’70s.

The truth is she’s wrong. I love lip gloss because I love lip gloss. I’ve never been a tree-climber, a worm-eater, a schoolyard fighter or a toad-toucher. For my lack of girl-guile, I feel guilt. Tomboys deserve a lot of credit for being themselves in a world that dictates vile standards of femininity. All women who deviate from tradition do. Though there is nothing inherently liberating about cosmetics or fishnets, they have been a crucial part of expanding my awareness of who I am. Strange as it seems to an outside observer, my migration into the world of frill has been laced with its own unique brand of rebellion.