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We can carve out clogged hearts and replace them. We override our biology again and again when we see fit, but when it comes to female beauty, the only biology we want to override are the flaws in the female form that could be fixed with a sharp razor, makeup, carefully designed clothes, and silicone injections. An ugly girl will get in trouble for being unruly, talking back, not sharing, or not doing her schoolwork much more often than a beautiful girl. Conversely, an ugly girl is more likely to get positive feedback for doing well in school, for being smart, for being nice. It makes me happy to look at her smooth, heart-shaped face.
It makes me think of my own awkward face when I was her age, the too-big cheeks and small, freckled nose, those horrible thick bangs cut straight across my forehead. I was told I was ugly plenty of times, but I never believed that was true, coming as it did from other unattractive kids who were obviously putting me down for the sake of putting someone down. I have no memories of being told I was pretty during the first half of my life. By the end of high school, I was just an average-looking girl who cared about being smart and reading books and writing. Then something tragic happened.
During my first trimester in college, the boy I liked told me I was beautiful. I laughed and laughed and laughed. He stiffened and walked away.
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I laughed all the way back to my dorm. I went into the bathroom I shared with five other girls and looked in the mirror. When did that happen? I had been maybe ugly, then average, then beautiful, but it was nothing I had done. I sometimes dressed up for special occasions. I sometimes put on makeup, but mostly, I continued to live like I always had, wearing whatever secondhand clothes I had lying around, not getting dressed up for parties on Friday nights, waiting impatiently while my friends tried on a dozen different outfits and worried about how to style their hair.
But now I had a choice. I could still look unremarkable with stains on my shirt and unbrushed hair, but with minimal effort, I could look stunning. Strangers were nicer to me. It was easier to get things I wanted. People wanted to give me jobs, a better view at a concert, or a drink. Everywhere I went, men held open doors for me to walk through. Would a woman who works hard to be beautiful save a lion? Would she be out in the jungle where her mascara might run and her heels would sink into the wet earth?
Would she give up manicures and trips to the salon to have enough money to feed the beast? They tolerated her, but did not like her. Her house intimidated me with its size and cleanliness, with the giant trampoline and wood staircase to the second floor.
The beauty trap - ogidobycelyd.ml
She had a closet as big as my half of the bedroom I shared with my little brother. Heather was not fat. The difference between me and the other girls was easily four sizes. The price of admission was too high. It came and went.
The Beauty Trap
I am still pretty, and if I lost thirty pounds, I might be beautiful again. I sometimes style my hair. I sometimes wear nice clothes.
It was easier in my twenties, when I still had the glow of youth. But if I spend thirty minutes in the morning, if I wear the right clothes and makeup and do something with my hair, then I am. If I spend those 3. Rose is in second grade. I saw her a month ago, already as tall as a fourth grader, not thin or fat, but big, which is not beautiful.
I wonder if she knows. I talked to her last night on the phone. She owed me a story.