I am sick and tired of buying lipstick that I don’t like 24 hours after I buy it, for a variety of reasons: A.) the color B.) the texture C.) the lack of longevity.

So when I heard about Fabrice, who applies permanent makeup to lips, eyelids and brows, I made an appointment. The 40-year-old Frenchman comes to the US from Zurich one week a month and works out of the Yasmine Djerradine spa in Manhattan, where I’ve had wonderful facials with Nathalie.

I had no idea what to expect, but I’m always game for something new, so I let him get started without asking a barrage of questions. First stop, lips. After applying a topical anesthetic, Fabrice outlined them, asked if I approved, then injected vegetable and mineral pigment. The process wasn’t pain free but it was definitely tolerable. I’m happy as a lark with the results. Ditto the eyeliner, which is a perfect, delicate black line. The procedure took a bit less than two hours. There was modest swelling for a day.

A close-up of my lips. They are a tad chapped, but that will disappear

Fabrice has been a “permanent aesthetic pigmentation artist” for eleven years. “European women are bigger fans of the procedure because they’re less afraid than American women,” he said. It’s safe as long as you find someone good to do it.

I did, however, have to sign a medical waver.  I’m glad I can still see and don’t look like Joan Rivers, God bless her. Sometimes I can be a little nutty, but I’m having fun. So far, the reaction has been favorable from friends and family.

BTW, my permanent makeup should last about two years. It also was a splurge.

Dominique Browning, the author of a new book called “Slow Love, How I Lost My Job, Put On My Pajamas and Found Happiness,” recalls the general reaction when she was dismissed as the editor of House & Garden: Everyone stopped fawning over her. One former pal even called her and said, “You’ve lost your power! Now I can say anything I want to you!”

Why do we so crave being in the company of powerful people? Does it make us powerful and more appealing by association? Do we walk away from someone once she can no longer help us?

Dominique Browning

Dominque also remembers nonchalantly zapping her incoming emails during busy mornings. Which begs the question:  Why, on the other hand, do people with “power” often become arrogant and start brushing aside others?

“I want to write about moving at a gentler, more loving pace in everything I do, learning to appreciate the beauty of everyday moments, the wisdom of thinking things over,” Dominique says on her website. “I was forced to slow down when I lost my job–and the journey of grieving and recovery is what my book is about. Slow living led me to falling in love with the world, experiencing what I think of as slow love.”

Maybe if more of us would slow down and do to others what we would have them do to us–when we’re in power–we’d all be a lot better off.

Rigby and I wandered into the H&M store near my apartment at around 7 p.m. yesterday. I bought a white, all-cotton, polo-style shirt; Mickey Mouse night shirt; pair of lightweight sweat-style pants; orange tee and a cute white tee that says, “Save The Ocean” in happy colors. My five purchases came to $65.

Every other shopper was a quarter to half my age. H&M is heaven for a young woman on a budget. It’s also an experience for FOFs who feel like going on a treasure hunt for trendy, incredibly-affordable clothes. A FOF friend calls them “disposable clothes,” because you won’t feel bad if you wear them five times and they fall apart.

H&M is a retailing phenomenon from Sweden, dating back to 1947 (as I do). It operates 2,000 stores around the world and has 76,000 employees. I loved finding four kicky items that I’ll probably wear all summer…for $65.

Breakfast in Manhattan can cost this much and it doesn’t last nearly as long.

“On March 8, 1947, a baby girl would be born who would celebrate what it means to be a woman over 50! and so….”

This was the message my friend, Hane, scribbled on the plain brown paper wrapping that held a present for me.  I hurriedly ripped off the paper and shrieked with delight when I saw the gift.

While she was cleaning out the apartment of a friend who recently died, Hane spotted a folder filled with dozens of old New Yorker covers. This cover caught her eye and she realized it was on the issue that came out the day of my birth.

When Hane showed the cover to her son, he was astounded because the illustration had significance, too.  “It looks like a group of FOF women of the day,” he told her.

It sure does.

This is the best present I’ve ever received (except, of course, for the roses my children give me on Mother’s Day.)  Hane had it framed and it now proudly sits on the mantle of the living room fireplace.

Constantin Alajalov, the Russian artist, had his first New Yorker cover published when he was 25.

Maybe faboverfifty.com was destined the day I was born.  How cool is that.