In makeup bags, the forgotten scent of lipsticks

As children, our mothers' makeup bags alone evoked the mystery of the adult world. On the border between the forbidden and the fascinating, this small pouch contained precious objects, handled by meticulous hands with sure gestures.

We all watched our mothers put on makeup, with mischief and envy.

There was the powdery smell of lipsticks that had been open for a long time, the perfume mixed with the leather or fabric of the bag, foundation marks on a zipper, a stained mirror, a powder-laden brush that we would rub on our cheeks, as if to apply a hint of elegance to our childlike skin.

We would twist the tubes, open the compacts, and when the temptation was too strong, we'd spray on two spritzes of perfume – the ultimate gesture that would give us away but would surely make our mothers smile, happy to share their intangible heritage. A makeup bag, at that age, was like a miniature dressing room: a universe where we vaguely understood that getting ready was a form of magic.

Then, delicately, we'd put the items back one by one without making a sound. Sometimes the zipper would catch on the fabric; don't panic, the second try would be the charm. Sneak out of the bathroom, phew!

This sudden wave of sweetness and freedom taught us all that growing up could feel like a privilege.