Pain is Beauty.
I’m taught at the age of 6 if I do not wear figure hugging, shoulder showing blouses, or shorts that have my ass hanging out: I am not “cool”.
At 12, I discover my first item of makeup – a tiny, hot pink bottle of cotton candy lip gloss.
But that’s not where it ends.
The seventh grade locker rooms were brutal. All the pretty girls made fun of my furry legs, all the teasing pushed me to break a promise I made to my mother. I gave in to the pressure: I shaved.
My collection of cosmetics and beauty rituals have since evolved from applying excessive amounts of gloss with the aid of my 6th grade locker mirror and the rusty, raggedy pink razor.
I have discovered primer, activated charcoal, detox waters, and deep shades of mauve and plum. I cannot count how many times I’ve had to tweeze, wax, or shave every hair off my body to feel beautiful.
I’m content with how I express myself as far as makeup or clothing go. My wardrobe consists of beautiful shades of taupe, plum, ivory/cream, and chambray. I’ve discovered how to feel confident and highlight my figure in modest ways, and frankly it’s comfy.
I apply makeup, not to look “beautiful”, but because the art of it is. It’s a spectrum of paint for the canvas of my face. I could express myself with a platform that isn’t sound or paper.
I suppose, what I’m trying to convey is that the journey to self love and recognizing your beauty is a tediously long one. It’s easy to submit to the belief you aren’t enough, when you’re more than enough. For me, my beauty was about confidence. The cosmetic aspects were fuel to my esteem.
Be your own beautiful. Disregard society’s standard.