“Will I be pretty, worthy, wanted?” When Beauty becomes Beast.
Brace yourself, beautiful.
We’ve now entered the PhotoShop era, where a fanciful fiction of fairness leads to a fall down the rabbit hole of deception and discontent, all designed by an ad executive who will tell the world what your ass should look like in those $300.00 jeans.
It’s a dizzying effect of distortion and contortion of beautiful form without adding real function and it’s pretty damn ugly.
But let’s be real and brutally honest that we are in fact, still only human.
Evolutionary biologists have found that both men and women rate members of the opposite sex with symmetrical faces and bodies as more attractive and in better health than their less proportionately-balanced counterparts. The differences were measured by tiny percentage points—barely perceivable, let alone blatantly noticeable.
Beyond being naturally programmed to source out symmetrical sex appeal, we’ve also (mostly) developed our most basic, reptilian brain-stem thought process of only gathering food, eating, drinking, sleeping, defending ourselves, and reproducing.
But beauty can eventually become a beast of burden.
After that tummy tuck, all that laser-lipo-lifting magic, and nose job (job- as if it’s something to work hard at and will eventually get paid for), what’s left? A lovely new shell of your former self that can, in reality, be pretty damn boring and simple, and very empty.
So today instead, let’s write. Let’s make love and make art. We’ll sing and dance and bruise, and age, and weather, and tear apart.
Make the choice to fill yourself to the brim with so much beauty and compassion and love it bursts out of you, saturating and soaking everything around you. Try to be a little less judgmental and shake the scorn. It ain’t easy bein’ green, so shed the jealousy and laugh a lot more.
To all of you who missed the memo this morning, you are gorgeous.
Go spread your kind of pretty, beautiful…but watch this first.
“Pretty” by Katie Makkai
When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, “What will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? What comes next? Oh right, will I be rich?” Which is almost pretty depending on where you shop. And the pretty question infects from conception, passing blood and breath into cells. The word hangs from our mothers’ hearts in a shrill fluorescent floodlight of worry.
“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty?” But puberty left me this funhouse mirror dryad: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting. My poor mother.
“How could this happen? You’ll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist. You sucked your thumb. That’s why your teeth look like that! You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were 6. Otherwise your nose would have been just fine!
“Don’t worry. We’ll get it fixed!” She would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that, as if it were a cabbage she might buy.
But this is not about her. Not her fault. She, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable facade. By 16, I was pickled with ointments, medications, peroxides. Teeth corralled into steel prongs. Laying in a hospital bed, face packed with gauze, cushioning the brand new nose the surgeon had carved.
Belly gorged on 2 pints of my blood I had swallowed under anesthesia, and every convulsive twist of my gut like my body screaming at me from the inside out, “What did you let them do to you!”
All the while this never-ending chorus droning on and on, like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood. “Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Like my mother, unwrapping the gift wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.”
And now, I have not seen my own face for 10 years. I have not seen my own face in 10 years, but this is not about me.
This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl 30 stores in 6 malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven’t a clue where to find fulfillment or how wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those 2 pretty syllables.
About men wallowing on bar stools, drearily practicing attraction and everyone who will drift home tonight, crest-fallen because not enough strangers found you suitably fuckable.
This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty?” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer, “No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters.
“You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing. But you, will never be merely ‘pretty’.”