Archive of ‘Life in Girl Land’ category

Owning My Beauty.

This morning when I looked in the mirror, I said, “hello, beautiful.” And then I snorted.

So I tried again. “I said, hello, gorgeous.” My reflection eyed me warily, but didn’t respond.

“You really are beautiful. A beautiful woman.”  This time, I couldn’t help the roll of my eyes.

You see, I’ve never been comfortable with my appearance. Never been able to love the skin I live in.

Even as a little girl, I knew I didn’t look quite right. I just wasn’t sure why. The twirly skirts, the pigtails tied with bows…I loved them. But the playground teasing I endured assured me I had it wrong.

Then, as a teenager, I wore glasses, had acne and a mouthful of braces. I was short, had an odd sense of style and struggled with my weight. That, of course, was a recipe for disaster. Especially when coupled with an innate shyness and a tendency to hide my nose in a book.

Eventually, though, I came out the other side. The braces came off, the glasses gave way to contacts, and the acne…subsided. And I? Became a not-too-terrible-looking human being.

But the damage was done. I couldn’t see the reality of what was staring back at me in the mirror. I could only see what I lacked. 

Instead of the pretty blue eyes, I saw only the crooked nose.

Instead of the fantastic smile, I saw only the stained teeth.

My boobs were too big. My thighs were too large. Even my feet were too wide.

I was a melting pot of flaws.

Now, of course, I look back and think, “you idiot. Why didn’t you appreciate what you had?”

And then I go back to beating my self-confidence into the ground.

But that has to end. And it has to end now. As I’ve already mentioned a time or five (million), I have a daughter now. And, as I’ve also said, she needs a strong, self-confident role model.

So, I’m trying to see myself for the wonderful human being I am, flabby belly, chubby thighs and all.

That belly is poochy because it performed a miracle.

Those thighs are supported by some damn fine calves.

I have a fantastic smile.

I have pretty blue eyes.

I am strong.

I am smart.

I am sexy.

I am beautiful.

This post was written for the first Bloggers and Tiaras challenge at MomDot. The task? Define what beauty means to you. If you think I’ve done a good job, you might want to head on over there and vote for me. There’s some serious bling at stake. And I? Would really like some pretty pearls to go with my tiara.

Adventures in Girl Land: The Hair Edition.

I’ve never been very good at being a girl. I mean, sure, I like to wear skirts, have a serious shoe fetish and cry at weddings. But I’m not good at girl stuff. You know, like putting on makeup. Or picking out accessories to match my outfits. Or doing my hair.

Especially the hair thing. After twenty years of battling acne, I figured out how to do a passable job of “putting on my face” as my mom always called it. But my hair? Has pretty much always been a bit of a disaster.

In high school, which I attended at the height of bad perms and mall bangs, I tried to fit in.  I got the perm, attempted to curl the bangs…but on me, it never looked quite right.

In college, I cut it all off. Got myself a pixie cut. It looked kinda cute…but I still hadn’t grasped the concept of styling products. So it was always just a little bit off.

Over the years, I’ve gotten better. I’ve also gotten better at picking easy-to-manage hairstyles. Hairstyles that take nothing more complex than a little flat ironing. Until last week. Last week, in a fit of, “oh man, I look like a mom. I don’t want to look like a mom,” I got myself a haircut with lots of layers, requiring lots of product and more intense “styling.”

So you know what I did today? I spent 60 bucks on styling tools. Got myself a real ceramic straightening iron and a fancy shmancy ionic hair dryer (whatever the hell that means). I even got myself some product.

I’m hoping these magic tools will help me go from clueless schlub to hairstyling pro…or at least someone who looks like she knows what she’s doing.  Think it’ll work?

Do me a favor. Don’t answer that.

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