Ironical, how we as women, pooh pooh the very idea of attractiveness thrust upon our reluctant faces (blame the wicked idiot box and all those commercials on air / the glossies / diva-esque Hollywood / Bollywood celebs), and yet, we try our best to conform to what is our ideal of perfection / winsomeness / attractiveness.
We agree that not every girl is cover girl material, a femme fatale, a vision, a knockout, or a looker.
We agree that God didn’t create equals. (Even Archer concurs.
And yet, we crib.
We gripe.
We grumble audibly.
About ourselves.
We are plump.
We are anorexic.
Our hair is too limp / dry / frizzy / curly / voluminous / sparse.
Our skin is too oily / dry / patchy.
We have wrinkles, crow’s feet, stretch marks, ungainly cellulite, blemishes.
Our legs are too long, too short, too thin, too flabby.
We slather lotions and potions from the Dead Sea to closer home, from the Shahnaz’s to the Blossom’s.
We burn holes in our pretty pockets.
Though not masochists, we give pain to ourselves – what else would you call those fortnightly visits to that uber-steep salon?
We powder. We preen. We paint.
And fight our imperfections almost on a daily basis.
A friend moans each time I meet her, always about the same thing – her zits refuse to go, despite her having tried every acne-diminishing cream available in the market.
Another will groan each time she comes even half a mile close to the weighing-scales, but reaches out for that tiramisu in a trice.
I’d groan too.
Each time I’d see my two scars.
Testimony to a naughty-childhood.
Except that, till some time back, I would whimper and call myself “Scarface,” much to my mom’s annoyance, and visible displeasure.
Now I understand their importance.
They may not be beautiful in my eyes still; but they aren’t ugly too.
And assert a past that I do not want to forget.
Three words – Acceptance. Overcoming. Survival.
The scriptures say, “Love thy neighbor.”
I’d say, “Start with yourself.”
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