A few weeks ago, Facebook took my insecurites up a notch, and dramatically lowered my self-esteem. It was the zillionth time in months, and, considering the fact that I had always been a confident girl who never compared herself to others, I was frankly fed up with it.
I live in a society where image is everything. My life experience and my insatiable consumption of pop culture regularly demonstrated to me that the world is divided along the axis of beautiful and non-beautiful people. I watched the beautiful people teeter along effortlessly, simply living their fabulous lives; and I considered myself to be part of their antithesis, a member of the majority who toiled long and hard to go on living, balancing all the aspects of their lives on a platter that never shined as brilliantly as that of their counterparts.
Preoccupied with educating myself on the world’s bountiful lessons, acquiring new skills, enjoying my friends or mapping my dreams, I never had the time to consider my own beauty, let alone its lack thereof. But my regular, routinised use of Facebook has served to highlight my shortcomings in a way I never imagined.
Every time I log in, I am confronted with pictures of girls five years younger than me – dressed to the nines, posing with pouts that rival Posh’s and leg kicks that would make Heidi Montag shy away from the camera; made-up like a bride on her wedding day, smiling and showing off all their youth and all their beauty. Models in their own world, looking like they’ve never known ugliness, or fat days or pimples. The camera generation – click, click, click.
I resented the fact that for once in my life, I had low self-esteem. Why couldn’t I be beautiful? Why did I have to choose between intelligence and looks? Why were the only clicks that I would ever hear come from my pen, as I sat scribbling away my thoughts wearing trackies, and sporting hair that resembled a lion’s mane? More so, I resented the fact that I, in all my post-feminism security, with the world at my feet, was wondering about my appearance. And that I would, in an attempt to feel better about myself, whinge to man about it.
But ironically, it was man and mascara wand that held my answers. When my boyfriend reminded me that my morning ritual was a basic wash, brush and dress – in comparison to the more beautifying regimens of washing, applying make-up, styling hair and carefully constructing stylish outfit – he implied that I could possibly be just as beautiful if I gave a half hour of my day to the compact and the hairdryer.
I spent ages wondering if he was right. I tested out his theory, and found that I too, had the opportunity to teeter along with the beautiful if I blowdried my hair and wore foundation. The men at service stations were polite enough to actually look at me and put the change in my hand as opposed to throwing it into my palms absentmindedly while keeping their eyes at the other patrons refuelling. Girls in boutiques and chain stores actually bothered to properly serve me, enquire about my day and offer me outfit suggestions when I looked at the clothes on their racks. I came to realise that I was my own pumpkin’s fairy godmother, and my bibbidy-bobbidy-boo of magic came from the likes of Maybelline, Revlon and MAC.
I had long perceived myself to be permanently outside the beautiful. I had chosen to pluck at the weeds on my career path instead of plucking my eyebrows. I was the one who preferred to tend to my dream of writing full-time from a fabulous home, instead of tending to exfoliating masks, waxing appointments and fake tan. And it was my decision to relax on the couch with a DVD, glass of wine and my hair in a towel after a hot shower, instead of giving myself a pedicure and blowdry.
But to be a part of the other world was to simply arm myself with some product, because as far as the opposite sex goes, any woman could be beautiful if she spent her time crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s. But still, it seemed far too complicated. Especially because, considering I had invested time and effort into the belief that beauty was not skin deep and something inherent to my personality, I was letting beauty peer at me through the eyes of a beer-holder, not the beholder.
Not long after my Facebook self-esteem plummet, I was bogged down with the third bout of tonsillitis for two months running, and buried under a mountain of research for my postgraduate thesis at uni. Sick, cold and totally lazy, I went to the doctor’s dressed in mis-matched layers of clothes, patterned scarves, and horrendous ugg boots and beanie that not only rendered me totally unglamorous but almost homeless-looking.
I had begged God to allow me the dignity of not being recognised by anyone I knew. But in His usual mysterious ways, I had found myself sitting next to my little old lady neighbour, who, watching me apologise for the chaotic state of my dress, gave me something I needed to hear all along.
“Yes dear, your outfit is a bit concerning. But I failed to notice it when you opened your mouth, spoke about how busy you were, and laughed at your choice of dress. You have a smile that is so honest and true to you that it is undeniably attractive, and lights up this whole room”.
As I write this essay, Michael Jackson’s passing is still dominating our headlines. I think of this man who spent millions altering his appearance till it was rendered bizarre, a man who was nicknamed Wacko Jacko for the latter part of his life. In the outpouring of grief and the mass media coverage that his death has earned him all over the world, I think about the change he made to music. This was a man whose face meant nothing next to the voice and talent that has been almost unparalleled in history.
One day, death will come for me like the clock came for Cinderella at midnight. I would want my loved ones to remember me for my wit, charm, and intelligence. If I am lucky, I would have achieved my dream of being able to write full-time, any time.
Until then, I will continue to pluck at the weeds on my career path, because although my mascara wand works magic when I need to bat my eyelashes, I’m always going to be a pumpkin, albeit a smart one whose smile supposedly lights up a room. Which to me is relatively simple – the ratio of products-to-self works wonders when we’re about to click, click, click, but every other time, the only product that brings out true beauty is our unique self, and remarkably, the product we’ve been neglecting to hold on to all along.
Images
Top by frida27ponce on Flickr, first appeared in Spanish Vogue
Middle by El Secretario on Flickr
Bottom by Annie Mole on Flickr
Sarah, i loved reading this. On Saturday night I stood in the kitchen with my flatmate and she asked what I’d choose if I could be anything. I found myself saying (and meaning)”beautiful, I’d like to be really drop dead gorgeous”.
This response suprised me. Like you I have committed myself to a lifetime of learning to write -a journey I am finding to be a constant balancing act between creativity and-harder to find- confidence.
And when I think about it now, I realise that while being glamorous would be fun, I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t sustain my attention the way my “real life” has.
Being stunning on the outside would certainly have it’s advantages but the reward I’m seeking in life comes from the challenge I’ve set myself, through direct route from my heart, to write and learn.
“Why did I have to choose between intelligence and looks?”
“I had chosen to pluck at the weeds on my career path instead of plucking my eyebrows. I was the one who preferred to tend to my dream of writing full-time from a fabulous home, instead of tending to exfoliating masks, waxing appointments and fake tan.”
As much as I love your writing, I’d like to think that views like this are entirely outdated! Any girl who takes the slightest time on her appearance has a hard enough time being taken seriously as being capable of having a ‘career’, comments like this are disappointing from an otherwise informed woman in a publication of smart gloss
x
Good point, Sarah-Jane. But I don’t believe that I implied that girls who do take time on their appearance were any less smart or did not deserve to be taken seriously. This piece was more of a personal reflection that instead of taking time out on myself, I simply worked round the clock. I channeled all my spare time in my career, and as a result, my personal appearance became lacking. In fact, I tend to believe that women who do take time to tend to their looks are ten times smarter, because when you look good, you feel good, and you work well as a result. Where as I just kept going round in circles. And I think knowing this makes me infomed!