I have never been the kind of girl to cry over a broken nail. Never been the kind that checks the mirror frequently or makes sure the hair still looks good. I grew up with a mirror big enough to see just the face or the pimples. To see any part below the neck I had to stand on a stool or look at my reflection in the windows while passing stores in the city (if I was in the city). I have freckles and curly jumpy hair, the freckles I don’t mind, but the hair was kept neat and in place with gel and tons of bergamot. I wore whatever we could afford and sometimes it was in line with whatever was the fashion at the time (belly jeans, or bell bottom jeans). But more often it was not. And it didn’t bother me. What Did bother me were the legs marked with black or brown spots, a disadvantage of lighter skin combined with pox, mosquito bites, itch and scratching
I got the usual attention from boys, most of the time I was surprised, because I didn’t consider myself fashionable or as beautiful as others. But it still gave me confidence, a feeling that I was not entirely “out”. I talked a lot, was usually brave enough to talk to a guy I liked, just for the talking. Nothing else, I was too scared for anything else. In short, I guess I was the regular insecure pimpled teenager. But still I was considered a threat to other girls. So much even that they wouldn’t introduce me to boyfriends or guys they liked cause they might fall for me instead of them. Now I wonder if that says anything about me or them. Anyways it turned out that I was easy to talk to and often hanged with boys rather than girls (which didn’t do my reputation any good). It was too much drama to hang with girls, always a fuss with hair and make-up an crushes and fights and jealousy.Then there came the time that I did take interest in make-up and other girly things, but eventually it just restricted itself to eye-liner,mascara, and earrings. I knew I looked good if I got good feedback and smiles or looks from guys (i liked). Nothing else was needed.
Now a wife and mother of one, I still feel the same. Don’t do much beauty thingies, they don’t capture my attention long enough to make me spend more than 20 minutes in front of my now full- length mirror. Still have spotted legs and don’t often wear shorts. I do like beautiful things but glittery and glossy are not my type. I have the husband all the other girls dreamed of, the one even I dreamed of, but never thought he would so much as look at me. And now with even more I could complain about after pregnancy, he still loves me! I wonder if this attitude toward beauty came from how I was raised, where I was raised and the conditions. I think most of all I was fortunate to have a mother who taught me to be myself, to not let whoever anyone else was affect who I was. One who taught me that I never had to be the girl in the magazines (the one she copied dressed from and made herself). I’m glad I am the kind of girl who never cried over a broken nail.