How I Decided To Give Up This Beauty Race
It happens that I’ve been spending a lot of time on the Upper East Side recently, and must say one thing – there are a lot of fake faces out there. And it really annoys me. It annoys me the point where I’ve decided not to worry that much about my looks anymore.
I recently talked to one lady who is in her 50s and lives in Atlanta now. She came to NY, to her old neighborhood, the Upper East Side, for a school reunion. She hadn’t seen some of her college classmates in 40 years! I saw her a day before the reunion - she was excited and a bit scared – 40 years is a long time, after all. And then I saw her the day after. She said she had a great time and she added, “But you know what? All my friends had something done to their faces. All of them. And I haven’t done anything and suddenly started thinking that maybe I should do something about that.” I told her that that’s nonsense (she has better skin than I do!) and asked her not to even think about it. And we both started talking about fake faces in that particular neighborhood. Most of the women there have their lips done, not to mention botox and other stuff that I can’t even name (a lot of plastic surgery). They all look alike. And I’m always wondering – do you really think that people won’t notice? Or do you just not care? But then again – if you didn’t care, you wouldn’t have all of this plastic surgery.
I see faces like this all over Manhattan. And then on Instagram. What is it about this perfectly smooth, young looking face? Ok, I get it - I want to look young as well, but I won’t pretend I don’t have wrinkles, or that I’m not 36. I’m not 20, it’s impossible to have a perfectly smooth face without wrinkles anymore. And there is nothing wrong with that! I know, I still don’t look old and maybe I’ll change my mind about this subject in 10 years (especially given that I love the sun and don’t avoid it at all – actually, quite the opposite), but for now, I just refuse to believe that we all should look the same and super young all the time. Why is it so shameful to have some wrinkles? Our grandmothers didn’t worry about shit like that. They didn’t even have foundation and they were happy! What’s this obsession with having everything perfect? I’m guilty of that myself. I catch myself looking closer and closer in the mirror and asking myself – how old do they think I am? Yes, I’m probably vain, but I blame society. It’s impossible to feel good about yourself in today’s fake filter world. All these elongated eyelashes, permanent eyebrows, perfect make-up. I got really tired of that. I really did. I just can’t do it anymore. Especially now, when it’s summertime. It’s so hot that you just can’t be in charge of your own look– the heat will not let you do it. I’m walking in Manhattan sweating my ass off now and the last thing on my mind is if I look good.
A few days ago, I was waiting for a train on a subway platform and I suddenly felt sweat streaming down my back and legs and my “fresh” hair got so wet that it wrapped around my neck, making me feel even hotter. And that was the exact moment when I decided that I give up. I gave up worrying if my face looks good, if I’m skinny enough, what people think about me. I just gave up. I realized you can’t win this battle. There will be always something wrong with you, there will be always someone with better looking skin or a better looking ass. If you want to be part of that – be my guest. But I’m getting off. I choose to be real - with these wrinkles around my eyes (I laugh a lot and I would definitely not give up that), with my imperfect skin and belly that isn’t quite flat yet (and probably never will be). I choose to be myself. Because I don’t want to look like anyone else. And considering where it’s all going – the chances that I might look like no one around me are huge – because I would be the only one with a face looking like a leather bag. And that’s fine. If this is the price – I’m willing to pay it. I will focus on being good and happy rather than being perfect. I call it a fair trade.
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