The hospital gown is a Great Equalizer, but not in a way that feels particularly good. It’s thin, it’s drafty, and it’s designed for easy access by strangers, which is basically the opposite of how most people want to feel when they’re about to have a major organ removed. I remember sitting on that crinkly paper, staring at the sterile white walls of the pre-op bay. Everything around me was beige or clinical blue. Except for my mouth. My lips were a defiant, saturated shade of "Ruby Woo." It felt ridiculous and absolutely necessary all at once. People ask why I wore lipstick to my mastectomy, and honestly, it wasn't about vanity.
It was about not disappearing.
When you get a cancer diagnosis, you’re suddenly thrust into a world where your body becomes a project. You are a series of scans, a set of pathology slides, and a medical record number. The "you" part of the equation—the person who likes spicy margaritas and forgets to water the plants—tends to get lost in the shuffle of surgical consults and insurance authorizations. I wore that lipstick because I needed the surgeon to see a person, not just a procedure.
The Psychological Armor of Aesthetics
There is actually a lot of data on how small acts of "self-presentation" impact patient outcomes. While it sounds superficial, it’s deeply rooted in a concept called enclothed cognition. This is the idea that the clothes we wear (or the makeup we put on) can actually change our psychological processes. Researchers like Hajo Adam and Adam Galinsky have looked at how wearing specific items—like a lab coat—can increase focus. In a surgical setting, wearing lipstick is less about "looking pretty" and more about putting on armor.
I wasn't the only one. If you scroll through breast cancer forums or talk to nurses in the oncology ward, you'll hear about women who wore their favorite silk pajamas under their hospital robes or painted their toenails a neon green just because it made them laugh. When the world is stripping everything away from you, you cling to the things you can control.
Most people don't realize that surgery is a surrender. You are literally rendered unconscious while people you barely know do things to your body that will change it forever. That’s heavy. For me, that swipe of red wax was a way of saying, "I am still in here." It was a tiny flag planted on a very rocky hill.
What Surgeons Actually Think About Your Makeup
Okay, let’s get into the weeds of medical reality. Can you actually wear makeup into an OR?
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Technically, most hospitals prefer you don't. And they have some very practical reasons for that. Anesthesiologists use your skin tone and the color of your nail beds as a quick visual reference for oxygenation. If your lips are covered in opaque red lipstick, they can’t see if you’re turning blue. Also, there’s the issue of the pulse oximeter—those little clips they put on your fingers. If you have thick acrylic nails or certain types of dark polish, the infrared light might not be able to read your blood oxygen levels accurately.
I had to have a conversation about this. I asked my anesthesiologist if the lipstick was a dealbreaker. He laughed and said, "As long as it’s not caked on so thick I can't see your skin if I need to, and as long as you're okay with it getting smeared, I don't care."
Some surgeons find it helpful. It’s a marker of the patient’s spirit. Dr. Elizabeth Comen, an oncologist at Memorial Sloan Kettering and author of All in Her Head, has often spoken about the importance of treating the whole woman, not just the disease. When a patient shows up with a bit of their personality intact, it changes the dynamic in the room. It reminds the surgical team that there is a life, a history, and a future attached to the chest they are working on.
Navigating the Loss of Control
Why I wore lipstick to my mastectomy really boils down to the loss of agency. Breast cancer is a thief. It steals your time, your hair if you do chemo, your sense of safety, and eventually, parts of your body.
The morning of the surgery, I felt like I was on a conveyor belt.
Check in.
ID bracelet.
Pregnancy test (because apparently, at 40 with cancer, they still need to be sure).
IV start.
It’s a series of indignities. But standing in the bathroom, carefully lining my lips? That was a choice. It was a deliberate act of creation in a day that was going to be defined by destruction.
The Mirror Reflection
There’s a specific moment right before they wheel you back. You look in the mirror one last time. I saw a woman who looked terrified, yes, but she also looked like someone who was going to fight. The lipstick acted as a mask. It’s a weird human quirk—if we look like we’re okay, we start to believe we are.
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Honestly, the recovery room was a mess. I woke up groggy, nauseous, and bandaged tightly. My lipstick was definitely smeared. I probably looked like a clown who had been in a bar fight. But when I caught my reflection in the darkened screen of my phone later that afternoon, I saw that lingering hint of red. It was a reminder that I had made it through. I had gone into the "underworld" and come back, and I had brought a little bit of my old self with me.
Cultural Expectations and the "Strong Patient" Myth
We need to talk about the pressure on women to be "brave" and "graceful" during illness. There’s this weird societal expectation that you should either be a "warrior" in full makeup or a "victim" in a bedsheet. Both are exhausting.
I wasn't trying to be a warrior. I was just trying to be me.
Sometimes, the "look good, feel better" mentality gets criticized for being a distraction from the grim reality of the disease. And yeah, lipstick doesn't cure cancer. It doesn't make the drains less annoying or the pathology report come back any faster. But we aren't just biological machines. We are emotional beings. If a tube of $20 lipstick helps someone bridge the gap between "cancer patient" and "human being," who are we to judge that?
Common Misconceptions
- "It’s just vanity." No, it’s identity preservation.
- "The doctors will make you wash it off." Usually, only if it interferes with monitoring. Always ask first.
- "You won't care what you look like." You’d be surprised. Dignity is a powerful drug.
Practical Advice for Surgery Day
If you’re facing a mastectomy or any major surgery and you’re thinking about your own version of "lipstick," here’s the reality of how to handle it without annoying your medical team.
Choose the right formula.
Do not wear a gloss. It’s sticky, it gets everywhere, and it’ll end up on the surgical drapes. If you’re going to do it, go for a long-wear matte stain. It stays put. It won't transfer to the breathing tube if they have to intubate you (which they will).
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Talk to the Anesthesiologist.
They are the kings and queens of the OR. When they come to see you in pre-op, just say, "Hey, I wore this for my mental health. Is it going to be an issue for your monitors?" Most of the time, they’ll be cool with it. If they aren't, have a makeup wipe ready. It’s not worth compromising your safety.
Focus on the "why."
If lipstick isn't your thing, find what is. Maybe it’s a specific pair of socks (they’ll usually let you wear your own if they have those little rubber grippers on the bottom). Maybe it’s a crystal tucked into your bag or a specific playlist you listen to until the moment they put the mask on your face.
Moving Forward After the Mastectomy
The surgery is just the beginning. The weeks that follow are filled with healing, adjusting to a new body, and often, more treatment. That lipstick I wore stayed on my vanity for months afterward. I didn't wear it much during recovery—mostly I was in sweatpants and trying to figure out how to shower without getting my incisions wet.
But I’d look at it.
It represented the version of me that wasn't sick. And eventually, I started wearing it again. Not for a surgeon, but for a trip to the grocery store or a lunch with a friend.
Wearing lipstick to a mastectomy is a tiny, colorful protest against the sterile reality of being a patient. It’s a way to claim a bit of territory in a war you didn't ask for. It’s not about the makeup. It’s about the person wearing it.
Actionable Insights for Your Surgery Journey
- Audit your "Identity Anchors": Before your surgery date, identify one small thing that makes you feel like yourself. Whether it’s a scent, a color, or a specific item of clothing, plan to have it with you in the hospital.
- Communicate with your Care Team: Don't be afraid to voice your emotional needs. Tell your nurses if you’re feeling "erased." They are often your best advocates for maintaining your dignity in a clinical setting.
- Prepare a Post-Op Comfort Kit: Include items that help you transition back to yourself. High-quality lip balm (surgery air is incredibly drying), a silk eye mask, and your own soft pillowcase can make a massive difference in your mental state during the hospital stay.
- Research "Look Good Feel Better": This is a real program that helps people with cancer manage the appearance-related side effects of treatment. They offer free workshops that provide much more than just makeup tips—they provide community.
- Review Hospital Policies: Check your hospital's specific "nothing by mouth" (NPO) and "no jewelry/makeup" rules. Knowing the boundaries ahead of time prevents the stress of being told to scrub off your "armor" five minutes before surgery.