This piece originally appeared in Witches Mag, Issue #3, “Labor”
This story is about chipped nail polish. That’s what they decided was important. That’s what they decided could define sexiness and beauty.
Until I decided they couldn’t – not for me.
This is a story about fighting a battle with myself and others – and how I came away from the fight still covered in hair and fat and chipped nail polish. But knowing how to be sexy and beautiful...for me.
Before we get to the chipped nail polish, we need to get into the mind of who I’ve been for most of my life. At an early age, I learned that I wasn’t allowed.
I was not allowed to be imperfect.
Now I think humans in general learn this – not allowed to be late, or have depression, or need a minute. But as a woman, I learned all these things and more.
My body especially was not allowed to be imperfect.
By being taught that I couldn’t be imperfect, I was also taught that I must be constantly judging myself and assuming the judgment of others.
And I didn’t just accept judgment for my “imperfections” that were static, and there to stay. I also accepted judgment for the “imperfections” that are stages in natural cycles – nails growing, oil building up on hair and skin, teeth looking a bit yellow, hair all over the body sprouting in wiry fields. You know, things that need tending to.
This “tending to” seemed to fall into a woman’s responsibility for her imperfections. Women are taught to spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars every year on keeping the imperfections at bay. To ward off the evil spirits, who might actually enchant some passerby to see beyond the surface. It’s a lot of work.
I remember a friend telling me to try to hide my fingers when I was talking to a certain guy because he thought chipped nail polish was gross. I made fists and hoped he wouldn’t notice.
I grew up understanding that I needed to practice good hygiene. That I needed to have a skincare regimen, that I needed to brush and somehow style my hair, file my nails, the basics. There were even some fun elements like picking out lip gloss at Target and deciding which shampoo made my hair the shiniest.
But here’s what shocked me as I grew older and wiser:
The unwritten rule that this tending to must be done almost in secret. With all the appearance that you were already tended. That really, you don’t even need tending. That maybe this tending – like everything – is all for show and fun.
That truly sexy women don’t even need facials, they just get them because they’re relaxing.
Some women do it so well that I really believed the sleight of hand. Add then, of course, judged myself for being less subtle.
You know who and what I’m talking about.
The women who arrive to get a manicure with their nails already looking pretty damn good.
The women at the gym who already look “perfect.”
The women who look “put together” (whatever that means) even when they’re cleaning the house at 11 pm.
The one who bounces into the hair salon with hair washed, cut, and styled in a way that I’d pay a lot to walk out with.
The one at the wax center who looks like she’s never in her life experienced any form of leg hair.
Me on the other hand…..
Am I not allowed to be “imperfect” even for the sake of striving closer towards “perfection?” I mean, I’m trying! Look, here I am at the salon!
I’ve been judged for being red-faced and sweaty at the gym. By myself and others. I’ve been judged for having split ends while I am sitting in the chair waiting for a haircut. By myself and others. For having hair that I wish to remove when I show up at the wax center. For having a skin problem when I show up at the dermatologist. These are the people who were supposed to “fix” me. But I allowed myself to believe I was supposed to already be fixed.
All this judgment and striving, and attempted trickery was out of fear – fear that I would be “letting myself go” (in my 20s) otherwise. Fear that men and women would consider me gross, unkempt, grimy. A wearer of granny panties (because I also am so gross that I forgot to do laundry). A skipper of showers. A neglecter of nails. Naive in the ways of sexiness, seduction, and…beauty.
But while I was afraid of “letting myself go,” I was actually letting go of myself. My real beauty. My delight.
When I feel like I’m not allowed to be just my natural self now and then, then I start asking questions like Then why am I even here? What is even the point? What’s the trick? The one where you can look “perfect” without trying? Where I can stop all this pretending.
I used to put on makeup just to FaceTime with friends, even though we were both supposed to be in PJs drinking wine – you know, letting our guard down. But the mask stays on. (And sometimes it’s a facial mask, but even then you need to look pretty and have the mask perfectly outline your face and show your threaded eyebrows. And your styled “messy” bun needs to stay perfectly on top of your head – not lurching violently to one side as mine often does mid-conversation).
I do my hardest workouts at home. Because I know my sweaty, red, fat, acne-scarred face will press up against the floor like an idiot when I’m done, and the sweat will mix with a little bit of drool and drip onto the mat during that last excruciating plank. I’m sorry that I can’t look sexy while attempting to look sexy. Sorry that I want something more real than that.
So, to all the people who’ve judged me (including myself),
Sorry that my nails were chipped when I came to the manicure place to have them repaired. I’m sorry wax technician, that you had to see my hair before you yanked it out. I’m sorry that my hair was greasy as I stepped into the shower to wash it. I’m sorry that I bleed on my period. I’m sorry for being hungry at mealtimes. I’m sorry for being tired after work. I’m sorry that I’m bloated after eating. I’m sorry that there was something in my teeth while I was chewing. I’m sorry for having messy hair in the mornings. Sorry for answering the door in mismatched pajamas at 7 am. Sorry for that cellulite right where it always is. I’m sorry the chair made red lines on the back of my legs while I was sitting in it. Sorry for that merlot staining my teeth when I was having too much fun to worry about it. Sorry that you had to point it out. I’m sorry for all the ways my body failed you and failed me in your presence.
And you know what? I’m sorry for all these things becoming so important. I’m sorry for caring. I’m tired of caring. Sorry for being tired.
Sorry for needing some other way to be a woman.
Stretch marks, bloated period abdomens, and expanding vaginas tell us that we’re capable of great labor. And I’m not going to spend my strength on hiding – sweaty face or pubic hair or chipped nails.
The work of imperfection is never quite over. But I can see the fruits of my labor – hairy, scarred, bloated, accepted, beautiful fruits. I choose delight instead of judgment.
Delight will reign over all things beautiful and sexy and real in my life until you can’t tell the difference. I’ll zap off the hair on my vulva if it makes me feel better. I’ll also spread out my prickly pear legs at the pool if that feels more fun. Yeah, I think manicures are boring. Yeah, I went up a size. Yeah, I have hair there. Now pass me that piña colada.