For more than two decades, I have seen my image reflected in a postcard-sized prison mirror. At first, I see a woman who has lived a life marginalized, who is now exhausted and full of pain and deep regret for her life choices. I have aged. I have also survived the toughest 20 years of my life. Being a single mother before prison was tough, but navigating three different women’s prisons in New York State — especially the maximum security facility where I spent 15 years — has been soul-crushing. After my morning ritual, I look into the mirror again, and finally, I see a woman of courage, responsibility, compassion, and wisdom. But this reflection takes time — and tools — to come into focus.
Dignity begins with coffee then my makeup routine. I blend foundation to balance my uneven complexion. Then I carefully sketch on my eyebrows, one by one, revealing a boldness to my features that makes me feel like I can take on anything. Next, I apply green or blue eye shadow to highlight my hazel eyes, followed by mascara and a dash of brown-black eyeliner. I finish with a dab of lip gloss. By the end of this routine, the coffee has hit, and my painted face has bolstered my self-image as a survivor, someone who can and will navigate the day ahead with compassion, wisdom, and a healthy dose of laughter. When I have my lipstick on, I’m ready to roar. Makeup is part of my identity as a strong and resilient woman.
On May 23, 2023, that resilience was tested when, out of nowhere, the New York State Department of Corrections and Community Supervision (DOCCS) announced that it was restricting makeup to “female only” prisoners and drastically reducing permitted makeup items to “translucent powder and clear lipstick only.” Many of my fellow prisoners responded with confusion and outrage. Our collective reaction can be summed up as: “??!”
For the last 20 years, almost all makeup had been permitted inside, with the notable exclusion of “liquid” makeup (which was not a major issue because foundation comes in stick form). We knew we had been lucky because we had heard the stories of other U.S. prisons forbidding makeup in its entirety. We often spoke about how horrible that fate must be.
Now we’d become the horror story.
At a security meeting on the issue, a male captain told me that the penological reason for banning makeup is that “women will become unrecognizable and try to escape.” I reminded our captain that when the men at Clinton Correctional escaped in 2015, they did not tunnel out in disguise. And besides, no New York State woman has ever even attempted to escape prison. It was an absurd argument — as if the prison security staff would be unable to identify me in blue eye shadow.
Where was Kim Kardashian when we needed her?!
I tried to get some empathy from our superintendent, but some stuff was lost in translation. She, a Black woman, could not understand why translucent powder was so offensive to me since I am white. I explained that if I wear translucent powder I look casket-ready — and I demonstrated! This got her to acknowledge that she would also never wear translucent powder. But she still wouldn’t take our cause to the DOCCS Central Office. A shared gender identity between female corrections officers and female prisoners often doesn’t mean more empathy; our grievance department — almost all women who wear makeup — consolidated our complaints under the dismissive, petty title “Wants Makeup.”
Our self-esteem was in the gutter. It became so bad that, as the prison college programs neared spring graduation, the academic directors worried students weren’t able to concentrate on academic achievements because we were too distressed by our naked faces. The directors fought and won approval for a makeup artist to come to the prison for a special photo day at graduation so the students would feel more like themselves. I could not help but feel a twinge of annoyance at the disingenuousness, as the only time makeup was permitted was when they wanted us to look good for the academic dignitaries at an important public event. But what about feeling good for ourselves? What about dignity in our daily lives?
When our grievances and counterarguments finally did reach the DOCCS Central Office in Albany, our requests were denied. At this point, it was 2024, and we had been without makeup for a year. Getting the things we needed was becoming dicey. A black market for makeup popped up; a $6 stick of foundation could be bought for two $15 packs of Newport cigarettes. It was outrageous, but we paid it. Other items, we learned to make, or to preserve — for example, by boiling mascara in hotpots to extend its longevity.
Where was Kim Kardashian when we needed her?! No one in the New York State Department of Corrections and Community Supervision seems to grasp that many women rely on makeup for healthy gender expression. In 2022, the New York Legislature passed legislation so that New York prisoners would be referred to as “incarcerated individuals” instead of “inmates.” This is supposedly a way to signal a more humane approach to incarceration. However, when the same government authorities deny women our right to the practical dignities of everyday life, such as the right to wear makeup, such action feels like hollow rhetoric. Prison is a place of everyday indignities.
I was not done fighting, even if Albany didn’t want to hear us. Using my skills as a law library clerk, I outlined the issue in a brief and started to pitch the case to lawyers. We found ourselves short-listed on an agenda at the state governor’s office. Honorable Governor Kathy Hochul is not Kim Kardashian, but she also seems to like her makeup, and I was cautiously optimistic.
Thirteen months after our fight began, on June 27, 2024, I was given a direct order to immediately report to the captain’s office. I boiled a little mascara and reported. I was handed a folded piece of paper and told, “You have been served.” Although my eyelashes were a bit sticky, I read the letter. It was a revised notice from the DOCCS Central Office reinstating our makeup “effective immediately.” This notice was dated the day after our agenda item was vetted before Hochul’s office. She liked her makeup enough to understand our problem and rectify it — thank God.
But, like a villain in a horror movie who won’t die, the fight was not over yet. At the prison administration meeting to announce the good news, we learned that our prison’s administration was still denying access to mascara and lip gloss because they are “liquid” and “no liquid makeup is permitted.”
We must find ways to retain our self-image and dignity as people while we are inside.
I had been tipped to this opposition argument, so what followed was a demonstration of me pulling mascara and lip gloss from my pocket, removing the applicators, and turning the tubes upside down proving that these items were not liquid. Unpersuaded, my prison administrators told me to get written approval from the DOCCS Central Office. I found myself running to Webster for the definition of “liquid,” which is “to be fluid […] like water.” Despite that, the response was swift: “If the makeup packaging says ‘liquid’ it is not allowed — all other makeup is permitted.” It’s disappointing but not that surprising — the prison is full of absurd denials.
In the end, our makeup issue is far from “petty” or “girly.” We must find ways to retain our self-image and dignity as people while we are inside. Our campaign to get our makeup back is about our right to gender expression. For now, we’ve won back some of our right to express ourselves. I hope New York State can be a beacon for better conditions that other prison systems will emulate. For today, I am simply grateful for my lipstick … and my ROAR!
Bobbi Cobaugh earned her paralegal, associate, bachelor’s and master’s degrees in criminal justice while confined in the New York State prison system over the past 21+ years. She has been denied parole release three times. She remains a zealous jailhouse lawyer.
This story was reported in collaboration with Empowerment Avenue, an organization that supports incarcerated writers and artists.
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