High Fashion Girl

There have been many times on this blog where I have talked about the fashion industry’s (and Western society’s) nearly unattainable standard of beauty. Yet, during my 24 years on earth, I have learned the most important (albeit oft-quoted) lesson: It’s what’s on the inside that counts. I may not be conventionally pretty, but I am a pretty awesome person. My friends and I are not your average young girls. We do not dress like most of them and we do not look like most of them. We lament the fact that guy’s only seem interested in the cookie-cutter “cute” girl with her carefully crafted faux-innocent personality, bad highlights, fake tan, and french tip nails.

There are many ways I am different than the average girl (if such a thing could be qualified or quantified, which it probably can’t). For instance, I have the uncanny ability to be able to talk to anyone because I can always find something in common with them. I have hundreds of interests, that run deeper than marginal interests and are things that I care passionately about and have spent time researching and educating myself on. I have encyclopedic knowledge of the history of blues music and its influence on rock ‘n roll (and rock AND roll, which are two different things). I am talented at many things. I am funny. I am good at anticipating the needs of others. I am intuitive. I am honest. I am super tall, with naturally blonde hair, broad shoulders, grey eyes, pale skin and naturally round cheeks. I know about cars and video games and can down a double shot of whiskey without a chaser, but I also like to go shopping. I like to get muddy and dirty but I also have a gigantic collection of perfume. I am compassionate, generous, a good listener, and kind, but I am also defiant and courageous. I don’t look like other girls. I don’t act like other girls. And yet, for nearly my entire life I have been the girl that’s been ignored by the opposite sex. I’ve been “the funny friend” or “the best friend” or “the smart friend” but never “the girl I want to date.”

Sidenote: I acknowledge that this post probably sounds terribly bragadocious but I am sick of conforming to a standard that tells me that I can’t appreciate my great qualities without being labeled vain. What’s wrong with knowing yourself well enough to know if you’re awesome or an asshole? If you aren’t self-evaluative enough to make a statement like, “I am smart,” or “I am funny” or “I am kind” then something is wrong. For example: there are objective factors that enable me to say categorically that I am a funny person. I did stand-up comedy in high school. I was really good at it. I made enough money doing gigs to pay for my senior photos, cap & gown and class ring. I also know intuitively that I’m funny and that I have a good sense of humor. So, I’m going to say these things about myself if they are true.

Anyway, I have always had attractive best friends – usually far more attractive than me. These girls could bat their eyelashes and land any guy in the room. I did not fair so well in these games of flirtation and lust. Because of this always-second-best-syndrome, I’ve suffered from low self-esteem. I know myself well and like myself but have always felt misunderstood – which gives me great doubts about myself at the same time. That is, until I read this amazing article by Walter Kirn in Elle Magazine. In the midst of liposuction tips, advice on drastic weight loss and age-defying cremes comes this breathe of fresh air entitled “Pieces of You.” I was so astonished and moved while reading this piece that I teared up. Please, read this article and share your thoughts. I would love to hear them.

They tend to go out on the town in pairs, I’ve noticed: the conventionally pretty one, all dolled up and shining, and her average-looking friend, who’s barely had time to do her hair. The pretty one, I have a hunch, is generally the instigator. With the plainer one by her side, she thinks she’ll look even more dazzling than usual. And the plainer one goes along with the idea because she wants to bask in her friend’s glow—or maybe because she just doesn’t get out much. I don’t know. I do know, however, that when I spot them and manage to push in beside them at the bar, I often feel sorry for the pretty one.

Because she’s about to learn she’s not the pretty one.

“What are you girls drinking?”

The pretty one answers for both of them in most cases. Hers is the dominant personality, and her heels are higher, too. The plainer one (the supposedly plainer one) isn’t wearing heels. They hurt her feet, and she’s not afraid to say so because she has no image to preserve. This makes her much easier to talk to. It also makes her more interesting to talk to—and, as the night wears on, to look at. By then, see, the bar is full of pretty women, and pretty women tend to look quite similar. They may not look similar before they dress and put on makeup, but afterward they do.

“Where in Ohio?” I ask the plainer one, who doesn’t look half so plain now. I like her nose. I like the fact she has one. The pretty one had a nose at one time, but she hired a surgeon to cut most of it off.

“Akron.”

“I love that city,” I exaggerate. “It’s so…I don’t know…so…”

“Depressing?”

“Industrial.”

That’s when the pretty one, who’s tired of standing around with nothing to do but check out her look-alikes and estimate her own rank in the evening’s pageant, wanders off to use the bathroom. I don’t really notice; I like her friend. Her friend has hands that are too big for her wrists, and when she gestures with them to make a point, I’m mesmerized by their power, their vitality. I’d like to hold them, to feel them on my back. I bet they’re warm—much warmer than the pretty one’s, which are small and slender but look icy.

Continue reading Pieces of You by Walter Kirn.

After reading the article, I felt freer than I had in years. Gone was the desire to constantly compare myself to others. I had a sudden and sharp appreciation for my non-conventional looks and well-developed personality. I also, for the first time, truly believed everything my significant other had told me about my looks and body. Thinking their opinion to be based more on a loyalty to me as a lover than a true appreciation of my physical self, I too easily dismissed their words before. But now there was outside confirmation that a secret male contigent really did see the unconventionally pretty girl for what she was. I was practically chortling with glee. I wrote Walter Kirn a letter of appreciation. I thanked my s/o and told them I was sorry for never believing them before. I am so much more comfortable in my own skin now.