Beauty

We don’t show our scars enough

The imprint of a wedding ring removed

Stretch marks

The signs of a life fully lived

Botox removes our wrinkles

Signs that we have thought and smiled and frowned

Signs of emotion and expression

We don’t show our scars enough

We turn into wax dolls

                Beauty is a strange thing. What we think of as beautiful. What we are drawn to. What we think of as ugly. What we are repulsed by. How much of it is innate? How much of it are we taught? How much of it is somebody selling something?

                Beauty is a strange thing. So much of what is socially and commercially accepted as beauty is an erasure of any sign that we have experienced something beautiful. We smile, laugh, our eyes widen in delight. We take in the beauty of the world and over time laugh lines and squint lines develop on our faces. But we are told that those lines that came from the wonder of the world are themselves not beautiful and must be erased.

                Beauty is a strange thing. It is sold as perfection. That we must hide any and all imperfections to be deemed beautiful. Think of the base layer of makeup. Foundation. Concealer. Cover every inch of your face before we can put any color or decoration. Hide what you look like to beautify what you do not look like. I always found it strange that I had to put on concealer to hide any redness in my skin before putting on blush to add a healthy looking red flush to my skin.

                Beauty is a strange thing. What is it about flaws that make us turn away? What is it about perfection that makes us look? I still cannot separate in my mind what I find beautiful because I was taught it was beautiful, and what I find innately beautiful. I wonder if what repulses me actually repulses me or I was just taught to be repulsed.

                The most beautiful moments of my life have not been the most glamorous. I have been beautified by some of the most incredible beauty experts in the world. Flawless makeup that took my natural features, covered them, and painted me a new face. Hair perfectly coifed. Wardrobe perfectly tailored to suit my body, and show off it’s assets. I was stunned at my transformation. I drew the eye of every person in every room I walked into. But I didn’t look like myself. I didn’t feel beautiful. My natural features, my face was lost, and I felt as though I had an inch of mud on my face. From the outside looking in I was beautiful. From the inside I felt gross, and could not wait to wash my face.

The most beautiful moments of my life have been the most tender, the most raw, the most real. The human moment of connection. The human moment of seeing beyond a façade to connect to another person, in truth. This is a beauty beyond words, description. The beautiful moment of holding a new child in your arms. The beautiful moment of embracing through tears in shared grief. The beautiful moment of harmonizing in song, your voice matching another human’s voice, carrying each other skyward. The beautiful moment of reunion after months of separation from someone you love. The beautiful moment of seeing my grandmother’s wrinkled face, no make up, smiling her joy when she sees my face, no make up.

There is beauty in the surreal, there is beauty in the human. I don’t think I know what beauty is exactly. But I have clarity on what beauty is not to me.

I do not want to be made of wax. I do not want to pursue perfection.

I do want to made of flesh and bone. Of tears and heart. I want to pursue humanity.

I want to pursue a life.