Photo by Mike Newbry on Unsplash
History tends to be recorded in big deeds—demonstrations, revolutions, and sweeping speeches. But sometimes, it is the subtle, symbolic actions that are the most profound. In the history of Italy's movement toward gender equality and women's suffrage, one such action comes to mind: women smudging lipstick from their lips before casting their votes. This small gesture was, in reality, a strong assertion of women's sensitivity to the vulnerability of their newly acquired rights. It was an expression of caution, of strategy, and of utmost respect for the democratic process they had just been invited to participate in. This essay examines the historical, social, and symbolic meaning of this action and how it represents the larger picture of Italian women's fight for equality.
Italy’s road to women’s suffrage was part of a wider European movement, yet it bore its unique marks shaped by fascism, war, and cultural tradition. For much of Italy’s history, women were confined to the private sphere. Under Mussolini’s fascist regime (1922–1943), traditional gender roles were not just encouraged—they were imposed. Women were seen primarily as mothers and caretakers, and their political involvement was not only discouraged but actively prevented.
It was not until the period after World War II, when there was a moment of national rebuilding, that the debate concerning women's political rights became serious. Italian society had experienced the active role that women had taken in the Resistance struggle. As couriers, combatants, nurses, or supporters of the partisans, women had shown their political dedication and courage. Their contribution was no longer to be disregarded.
In 1945, women in Italy were finally given the right to vote. In the historic 1946 election, they voted for the first time in a national election—a referendum on whether Italy should be a republic or a monarchy. It was a time of deep transformation: not only was Italy deciding its political destiny, but women were officially entering that process as equal citizens.
This historical context is what led to the narrative about women wiping their lipstick before voting. On the surface, it could easily appear as something minor, yet it signifies so much deeper on a subconscious level. It illustrates an innate grasp of the suspicion women had when it came to the system. Voting during those times involved placing the ballot inside an envelope and sealing it. If there were to be any distinguishing marks on the envelope—be it a smudge, a fingerprint, or a lipstick mark—it would be deemed spoiled or invalid.
Women, just admitted to political agency, were particularly anxious that any technicality could result in the invalidation of their vote. And so they were careful. Some carried handkerchiefs or tissue to dab their lips; others did not wear lipstick at all. They knew that even a trace of femininity could be misconstrued as tampering.
This simple action was, in many ways, a metaphor for the challenges women faced in entering male-dominated fields. It represented the effort to fit in, to be taken seriously, to erase any part of themselves that could be viewed as frivolous or not worthy of political involvement. It was an act of small-scale self-erasure on behalf of a greater good—their right to be counted.
The necessity of wiping lipstick also speaks to entrenched gender biases written into social and political structures. Lipstick as a signifier of femininity and autonomy is suddenly a possible disruptor of the legitimacy of a vote. What this demonstrates is how, even in an instant of legal equity, cultural biases could still erode women's agency.
It should be noted that no such circumspection was demanded of men. A man's name, habits, or appearance did not jeopardize his vote. In the case of women, the fear was not imaginary and justifiable. It was a commentary on how fragile their participation in the political process was. They were legally citizens. They were still negotiating their legitimacy socially.
This inconsistency echoes an overarching pattern in the history of gender equality: that women have had to do more than simply participate—they've had to establish that their participation is legitimate, serious, and worthy of respect. Wiping off lipstick was not so much about obedience as it was about foreseeing and working around an institution not designed for them.
Whereas the history of women's suffrage is one of dramatic episodes—marches, arrests, and hunger strikes—it is also composed of quiet revolutions. One such episode is the wiping of lipstick before voting. It is an example of silent resistance and strategic adjustment. It illustrates how women have exercised caution, poise, and intelligence in fashioning space within institutions that had long been shut to them.
These small acts are often overlooked in the official record, but they are significant. They illustrate the varied forms that resistance can take. At times, courage is boisterous. At other times, it is the unshakeable determination to do everything correctly, to obey every regulation, and to ensure nothing, not even a lipstick mark, can be used as a basis to withdraw a right so dearly earned.
In addition, this act of self-regulation is evidence of just how deeply women absorbed the desire to be "perfect" citizens to be recognized as political actors. It is evidence of both pride in their newfound empowerment and tentative awareness of its vulnerability. Lipstick became an emblem not of vanity, but of strength and vulnerability.
Today, the photo of Italian women dabbing lipstick during voting time is a testament to the evolution of gender rights. It recalls that the battle for rights does not only refer to laws but culture, perceptions, and what one does in day-to-day life. It is an illustration of how, although the laws eventually evolve, attitude comes later.
This tale also reminds us of the sacrifices women have made, not just in those dramatic public acts, but in private negotiations with a world that did not believe them. The vote, now so automatic in the minds of many, was once so tenuous that a mere smear of lipstick could jeopardize it.
In hindsight, we can celebrate these women not just for casting their inaugural votes but for doing so with such diligence and resolve. Their tale is an exercise in attention, dignity, and the strength of small things to change history.
Wiping lipstick off before casting a ballot in 1940s Italy is more than just a historical anecdote. It is a question of the complicated truth of newly enfranchised women—women who knew both the value of their right and the attention that came with it. In their restraint was a profound wisdom: that rights are valued and need to be guarded, sometimes with high visibility, and at other times with slow, intentional movements. By this one small gesture, Italian women proved not only that they wanted the vote but also to be heard, respected, and remembered. And indeed, they are.