Dear adolescent child:
How old are you in seventh grade? Twelve or thirteen? That sounds about right...
So, I was about thirteen when a boy first referred to me as “hot.”
In the same week, I was also told that I “look like a man.” (AKA, not hot, AKA, identity crisis.)
Which one was I? A sexy piece of seventh-grade ass, or a homely degenerate that didn’t have a prayer? Naturally, I was going to do whatever it took to avoid the second option. So this is what I did, I wore a mask. Fabricated out of liquid foundation, blush, bronzer, eye liner and mascara, I plastered this mask on every morning until it became routine. It was so habitual that I couldn’t imagine leaving the house without it. Furthermore, I couldn’t fathom going out in public without mascara, at the very least.
My days became orientated around the success of my makeup, especially once high school hit. If my makeup was too cakey, I felt like shit. If my concealer creased too much beneath my eyes, I felt like shit. If my winged eye liner was uneven, I felt like shit. If I was too orange, if my blush was too heavy, if my eye lashes were too chunky, if my mascara had smudged, if I had a cut-off line on my neck, I felt like absolute, f*cking, shit. People were not afraid to point it out either, if my makeup wasn’t on point, at least one person always made sure I knew. I wish my current self could go back in time and sit down my teenage self and say, “tell everyone to go ‘ef themselves, because you are kind, you are smart, and you are a beautiful person, and even though today sucks, your life is going to be great, I swear. Stop wearing this cancerous crust and stop trying to be cool, just stop trying.”
It took six years for me to move past my conceited tendencies. It took six, god damn years, for me to feel okay leaving the sacred space of my bedroom without a drop of makeup. Six years to accept my face for what it was, to love my broken capillaries and crow’s feet and freckles and nose and chin and hair and eyebrows and eyes. (Yes, I wasn’t a fan of my own eye color for quite some time, but no one knew that.) For f*ck’s sake, I wish someone had told me that once you get out of high school, no one gives a flying f*ck about your physical appearance unless they are actual a piece of sh*t.
All I’m trying to say is, don’t make my mistake. Don’t fall into a trap of self-loathing, don’t believe for one second that you’re ugly. Don’t let boys make you question yourself, and don’t listen to them if they say you look like a man. Maybe I did look manly during my prepubescent years, but who f*cking cares. I was so happy before I felt the need to impress people through my appearance. I wasted so much time feeling insecure, and it was an unnecessary waste of energy. If you are feeling insecure, put your chin up, look in the mirror, and tell yourself that you look like a man!
Just kidding.
Tell yourself that you are lovely, that you are smart and that you deserve all the happiness in the world. Which you do.
So go and do that, right now, because I said so.
