It is foolish to wish for beauty. Sensible people never either desire it for themselves or care about it in others. If the mind be but well cultivated, and the heart well disposed, no one ever cares for the exterior. So said the teachers of our childhood; and so say we to the children of the present day. All very judicious and proper, no doubt; but are such assertions supported by actual experience?
Part I: Before
From elementary I was plagued by bumps on my forehead then cheeks. As a kid, this felt especially dirty, what was pinched fondly before is repellent now. Additionally, black dots appeared on my nose. My complexion was always wan and my predisposition to sulk or pout or frown does not help.
Relatively, my skin concerns are mild and honestly tolerable. I was bought different soaps and cleansers though I personally did not make an effort to achieve anything transformative, it was simply maintenance. Early 2022, I assumed because I am indeed much older and it was post-quarantine, my mother took it upon herself to address these concerns once more and with enthusiasm.
Some part of me wondered that it might just be for communication. Maybe, my mother wanted a daughter who's more like a daughter and less a creature who happened to be in her care. This was an insecurity that, for the longest time, I felt uncertain and ashamed of. Consequently, I started to notice more and more how different I was to other girls, and that I feel like I had to prove I was a girl because people would treat me either as a pet or a stray.
In conversations on beauty or romance, I am not asked for input. Though of course, it isn't that I have ever volunteered to give one. When I was young, I only sometimes felt left out in this way and I excused it because I was at least a year younger than everyone in my class. These societal associations to girlhood, however, during my coming of age, became steadily inescapable but it seems that it avoids me.
I had a classmate who, during a sleepover, passingly wondered who my crush was. I laughed like I was embarrassed, but I was elated. I felt capable and normal. But in the same group, they would ask each other what beauty products they love and at that moment my membership card declines.
That period in my life, aligning with the point where I become more prone to being on social media—which at this same century has had an increasingly mind numbing fixation with beauty and buying, has truly shaken (not destroyed!) my relationship with faces.
It appeared to me that there was a collective contempt to the mere thought of a blemish. I saw how a perfectly fine, young woman would have a ten-step skincare routine as a prevention for extreme(ly normal) hypotheticals. I saw people freak out over their “aged” appearance. I saw people wear face-altering filters in every video like its skin or makeup, and I saw people act like that was normal.
I have always held in me, a disdain for those people. I thought that they were vain and superficial, in a lot of ways I still hold this belief. I see no point in getting worked up on things unnoticeable from afar or inconsequential in the ways that truly matter. I saw this genuine and willing desire for a perfect skin as self-inflicted torture and disconcertingly unfeminist.
I could justify my contempt in more ways than one, but it boils down to a feeling of betrayal. These women who would swear to be “girls’ girls” further dig a deeper grave for the girls—for me.
Part II: During
For some unknown, bizarre, possibly celestial force during last year’s winter I began getting into it, after prolonged exposure on the lovely, funny hell that is TikTok. I have vowed to stick to the least number of products possible: cleanser, moisturizer, and sunscreen (apparently this was very serious). Despite my professed distaste for skincare culture, the actual act made total sense for me in the lens of maintenance and routine.
One must always leave ample time to get ready, so there is a slow, incremental rise in joy.
And then three different sunscreens irritated me, so I apparently I had to pair it with whatever else. Skincare products were my first purchase of the year, on the very first day. I found that this year I have not bought a book at all yet, even on my birthday, which is absolutely bizarre. I started to enjoy and see skincare as a hobby, that I get to inspect different products and make a guess on which ones would suit me.
It felt like a ritual that I follow an order, taking the time in front of the mirror. It was almost a spell how intentional I am with what touches my skin. It was hallowed ground, but it was also a burden. It frustrates me when something does not work. I spot “issues” that I never would have cared about or noticed before. All I see in people's faces is skin.
That my face right now is pretty much the same as it was last year, does not actually matter. I still don't strive for perfect skin. I only want to be frictionless.
Part III: Ever
In between writing this post (it’s taking me a surprisingly long time), I read Eleanor Stern’s “In Defense of Ugliness” (I think it’s obvious why I clicked on that) and found the word to summarize my most hideous wish: that despite my scorn for such and such and such, I recognize completely how I might benefit from it; that if I had a smoother skin, I’d minimize the unfortunate repercussions that my unfortunate face brings; that I could exist without friction.
I am still truthful when I say that I think that attractiveness in this measure is incredibly superficial, or in any measure for that matter. I understand that there is scientific evidence and societal proof, but I understand how there were times when there wasn’t and Beauty was simply felt; you just know it. Maybe it’s the human compulsion to put everything in boxes and assign labels that gave us a verbal definition. Now that people are more in control of their own thoughts and that of others, greedily so, that they narrow it down more and more to align with their ideal human, which is of course extremely harmful and lethal, though is being adopted by the current and future generations.
Beauty, she had discovered, occupied a narrow band. Ugliness on the other hand, had infinite variation.
Truthfully, I have no desire for cosmetic procedures (unless you’ll ask me on an especially horrible day). My “acceptance” of my face is not even an acceptance because that implies permission. It is just trivial to me to fight what is true and not wrong, it was never a question but is just is. I do not even think I am ugly but I know I am not beautiful to others, which is not the same thing. I do not feel insecure, I feel angry. I do not hate my nose, I hate other people for seeing it as a symbol that I am less.
What I do have is a frivolous idea to enter a new room, immediately bring out a pocket mirror, constantly touch up my lips, and reapply sunscreen. I think in this way, I might establish my girlness and self-assurance, and they will treat me accordingly. This, of course, is only out of the innate desire for better socialization and not of pretension.
I'd want to be sort of invisible, smoothly wander about without inciting any violent reaction, if it would not be too lonesome and uninteresting. It is my personal vanity that I do still want to look better: more put together, more graceful. I want my presence to transcend my appearance. I want to be untouchable. Aside from poise, intellect, and attitude, in some manner I also associate this to a brighter glow in my complexion—maybe I mean the simple fact that I am taking care of my body or maybe I mean actual happiness; the true radiance.
Mentioned:
Agnes Grey by Anne Brontë
Happy Hour by Marlowe Granados (I do not recommend, I dnf’d.)
Atonement by Ian McEwan
In Defense of Ugliness by Eleanor Stern