“Not for nothing, it also helps to know that feeling bad about your looks is apparently such a universal thing that even little girls who live in isolated Wisconsin cabins (as far as one can get from fashion magazines) can experience it.”
--from The Wilder Life: My Adventures in the Lost World of Little House on the Prairie by Wendy McClure
I was lucky enough to grow up in a magnet-school bubble that protected me from adolescent-girl meanness. I never wore fancy clothes or carried name-brand accessories, and for the most part, I wasn’t picked on for it. I may have been jealous of my friend’s Trapper-Keeper or slap bracelet, but I was never made to feel like less of a person for not having one. I never felt ashamed of my clothes or general appearance – at least not as a result of what my peers have said to me.
That being said, I would be blatantly lying if I said that I never struggle with my looks. It’s a rare day when I look in the mirror and I feel more confident for it.
My hair is flat, boring color so nondescript that I’m never sure whether to list my hair color as blond or brown. It’s not quite straight but not quite wavy, which basically means that it looks like a hot mess if I let it air dry or leave it down when I’ll be outside for long periods of time.
I’ve often wished that I could trade in the entirety of my skin for a new model. I’ve never been able to rid my face entirely of the acne that appeared at age 12. The skin on my nose is permanently 3 shades redder than the skin on the rest of my face, and consequently my nose often shows up bright red in photographs and I’m asked whether I’m sunburned when I haven’t seen the sun for weeks. Exercise makes ugly, rash-like bumps appear on my upper arms. And I have more moles than I’ve ever cared to count. They look ugly when exposed. They leave visible bumps under form-fitting clothes. And they’ve also left me covered with scars of various sizes, shapes, and colors, due to the need to remove at least one a year for precautionary skin-cancer screenings.
I do like the color of my eyes. They are hazel, showing some green, some brown, some gold, and even a thin ring of blue. However, my eyes are chronically dry, so the pretty irises are ringed by nasty red veins that almost never fade.
I could go on, but I won’t. I realize that everything I just wrote puts the worst possible spin on my features. But I was not trying to be objective; I was trying to write an honest account of the things that go through my mind when I look in the mirror. While I’ve never felt self-conscious enough to make me not leave the house, it is a rare occasion when I feel pretty.
I have made some efforts in recent years to feel better about my appearance. I stopped settling for whatever clothes I can get on, and starting putting in the effort to find clothes that fit well and learn which colors and cuts look best on me. I started forcing myself to wear bigger and more colorful accessories, despite the fact that I often feel like they are over the top. I have made periodic attempts at wearing makeup (but that’s one thing I have yet to master, so I’ve never stuck with it for long). Whenever I get my hair cut, I talk myself into cutting it too short to tie back, so I’m forced to fuss with it and learn what looks nice on me.
These steps have helped in some ways. At the very least, I’ve learned that people who look coordinated and put together aren’t able to do it without some effort. I feel a little more grown up and a lot less guilty about buying things for myself. I’m more confident, and maybe even happier. But as far as feeling prettier? Forget it. I still feel like I’m just doing the best I can with the mediocre hand that I was dealt.
I am quite sure that I am not alone in this. Far from it. But I don’t find that thought very comforting. Actually, it makes me a little sad to think that there are women everywhere who struggle to feel pretty. That idea has led me to think back on the moments when I have felt pretty. Surprise, surprise, I’ve noticed that these moments have something in common. I feel pretty when someone tells me I look pretty.
The fact of the matter is that it is next to impossible to be objective about your own looks. It’s much easier to believe that you look pretty if someone else tells you so. Before all the feminists object, let me say that I don’t think it has to be a significant other. After all, I’ve never had a significant other, and this has worked for me in the past. I never had any kind of romantic entanglement with my late friend Stephen, yet he made me feel pretty all the time. My cousin Kim has a way of complimenting my hair and clothes in ways that sometimes make me feel like I look pretty. Even some stranger on the train complimenting my shoes can make me feel pretty.
While some part of me hates the idea of other people controlling any part of my self-worth, I think there is an alternative way of interpreting this. Maybe the lesson is that it is so, so important to tell someone they look nice when you think it. Make it a point to compliment someone every day. Maybe if we all hear it enough, those feelings of prettiness will have a better chance of becoming intrinsic.
It’s just another way to pay it forward.
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