The most spectacular insult I ever received in my life was “your nostrils are so big that when you tip your head back, the room goes dark.” I had to give the guy props for inventiveness.
Until I was a senior in high school, I rarely thought about how I looked, despite abundant evidence that I was not widely perceived as pretty. No one ever told me I was pretty. I even remember a guy saying “God, you’re ugly” when I smiled at him in class. But I had boyfriends and was even cast as a romantic lead in a play as opposed to third gargoyle on the left. I guess I thought I looked just fine. I was told I was intellectually gifted and creatively talented and that always seemed to be enough.
So what changed? I came home after a play in which I had the lead role of a governess. I wore a beautiful blue costume, a lovely updo, and a full face of makeup. My mother took a long look at me and said, “You look kind of pretty with a little makeup on.”
I no longer blame my mother, even though it was an objectively shitty thing to say. She probably had never been told she was pretty, and she didn’t think she was, which always floored me. My mother was BEAUTIFUL. What bothered me most was not learning that my own mother didn’t think I was pretty. It was realizing that pretty mattered—and that I apparently did not possess what mattered.
After that it mattered a whole lot. Makeup became a permanent fixture on my face. My conviction in my own plainness was compounded when a man with whom I had an unfortunate liaison, seeing me bare-faced fresh out of the shower, said, “Is this what you really look like?”
I never saw him again. I don’t remember if he dumped me for my beauty deficits or I dumped him for his character deficits.
What strikes me still is how fast it happened—one sentence from my mother, and seventeen years of not caring evaporated. Not a slow erosion. A single crowbar to the gut. And then another from some random man.
As a therapist, I have sat with hundreds of women carrying the same wound. I don’t remember the first moment I recognized myself in a client, but there is a real challenge in treating something you haven’t fully resolved in yourself. They routinely describe their faces and bodies with a level of contempt not even directed at their worst enemies. Weight is by far the most common obsession, although aging runs a close second. Then come the inventories: jawlines, eyelids, necks, stomachs, wrinkles, upper arms, breasts migrating southward like retirees to Florida.
Nostril size seems not to be a major problem.
I remember having a conversation with my former graduate school advisor, who taught a brilliant women’s studies class. She said she saw nothing wrong with women adorning themselves—with makeup, hair dye, clothing, and jewelry. But if adornment becomes the only bridge to worthiness, it turns dark.
That adviser, whom I adored, never wore a lick of makeup.
When a woman decides, like Pamela Anderson, to go facially commando, it is a real risk. I admire the bravery, although if I looked like PA, I might feel more emboldened. I know that my discomfort in my own unvarnished face is ultimately my issue, but I also know that I share this issue with many others. Women are often praised for courage when they stop trying to meet the very standards they were punished for failing in the first place.
Catch-22, anyone?
Makeup, Botox, fillers, even surgery: it’s hard to walk away from things the world keeps rewarding. It’s scary to give up the shield. Just as everyone else has become accustomed to our faces with all the bells and whistles, so have we.
Like my former adviser, I am not saying we shouldn’t enjoy dolling ourselves up now and again. But I do bemoan how deeply it has been internalized and normalized as an entry fee for visibility, approval, and desirability.
We live in an attention-addicted society. Likes, loves, comments, and views on social media all provide squirts of dopamine. Being told you are pretty, beautiful, or that “you don’t look your age” is street-drug level validation. Fading into wallflower oblivion can feel like a fate worse than death in a culture that treats visibility as proof of worth.
I doubt I’ll ever be completely cured of wanting to be thought attractive. If someone tells me I look good, I still enjoy hearing it. If someone tells me I don’t look my age, I won’t actually file a complaint. But the older I get, the less interested I am in spending my finite time brokering a truce with my mirror.
Because when we stop caring if anyone notices our prettiness, we can stop caring if they notice our lack thereof.
You can even make peace with your room-darkening nostrils. And that’s nothing to sniff at.
Kvetchin With Gretchen 
I’m sorry for all the times I made fun of your nostrals. I think I did it because I was jealous of your beauty. I had to quit wearing any eye mid recently and that was very hard on me. I have been telling myself that, as a 68 year old, no one is looking a me anyway.
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You’re forgiven! Besides, it’s kinda true. And you have very pretty eyes, so you don’t need makeup on them. In fact, you have always been beautiful with or without makeup. But I know if you said the same thing to me, I would have a hard time believing it, lol! We are always so much harder on ourselves.
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You are beautiful on the outside because you are beautiful on the inside. I’m a little prejudiced because I’m your Aunt but I watched you grow up into a beautiful and caring person.
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Thank you so much, Auntie Kay. You saw me through all my phases, including my very awkward ones.
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I never thought I was beautiful or even pretty. I was a fat child who became obese by the time I was in 5th grade. In my adult life I have never weighed under 200 pounds. At my highest weight I was 393 pounds. That was during my caregiving years for my elderly mother and my brother who had dementia. In the last five years I have slowly, excruciatingly slowly, lost weight. This morning when I stepped on the scales I weighed 221 pounds. My ultimate goal is to be under 200 and stay there. I never considered myself to be pretty or beautiful because in our society and most societies, fat is ugly. When I look at myself today I see the determination and perseverance, not the fat. I learned to love myself. I am sure I should be paying your therapy fee for sharing all this with you. I have always, since high school thought you were lovely. My opinion doesn’t matter, only your opinion of you matters. In my 60s I finally figured a few things out. Most people are more concerned about their own looks than they are about mine. People who know and love me think I am a movie star, not because of my looks but because they SEE ME and appreciate me. I suppose it didn’t cross my mind that beautiful people didn’t think they were beautiful. When I see a photo of you there is sunshine. Thank you for listening. Send me a bill later.
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I am so sorry, Sue, that you went through all of that! You are a beautiful soul for doing everything that you did for your mother and brother, and actually, you are beautiful. I’ve always thought so. And you are so funny, in a wry, understated way that I really appreciate. Our society is horrible to women. It’s so good that you can value yourself for what matters. Anymore, despite my ongoing struggles with my appearance, I feel good about who I am and what I have developed within myself. On the house!!!
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Genius. You and I have had this discussion so many times. Of all the unhelpful things my mother said to me, this wasn’t one of them. She told me I was pretty, even beautiful. (Perhaps it was a reflection on her own pride.) I know now how little it matters, and how it can even be harmful, because we teach girls that “pretty” and “beautiful” are more important than “smart” “brave” “wise” “powerful.”I’m careful with young girls now, even when they’re dressed up and trying to look pretty. I’m conscious of trying to make “pretty” unimportant. “What a smart person you are to have chosen such an interesting outfit.” “I think that’s an intelligent choice.” “That’s a very wise answer.” Etc.
There’s nothing wrong with being pretty, but it’s not important. Or—we make it important, in our magazines, our movies, our culture—and all that emphasis can be ruinous. I’m on a mission to demote the importance out outward beauty.During the years I was acting I wore so much makeup it was easy to give it up once I wasn’t auditioning anymore. I still wear a little makeup to a professional event, but mostly just under my eyes so people won’t think I’m tired.Just so you know, I’ve never even noticed your nostrils.
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Thank you, P! Yes, if my mother had said nothing, I probably could have gone on blissfully unaware of “not being pretty” until that awful guy. But people will say things and it would have hit me at some point. But if in our families of origin, the beauty, or lack of it could be soft-pedaled we’d all be better off.
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Hi Gretchen, had this in saved mail & just got to it. you know how extremely busy my schedule is these days. I loved it & at the age of almost 92 have lived through ALL of that. Fortunately I have reached the “don’t give a damn ” age so am bare faced with hair in a bun even no teeth most days. Saving my skin & a fortune on makeup & being very comfortable. I have always gotten the “don’t look your age” & I don’t for whatever reason I do not have a bunch of wrinkles even after being a sun worshiper. I love it when I do have to get made up & people don’t recognize me. Did that to my new roommate the other day. FUN!!! As far as YOU are concerned that stuff you went through is BS. When you walked into Around the Clock that first evening I though “what a lovely young lady” & then when you opened your mouth BEAUTIFUL & intelligent. You can’t beat that. Thanks for still including me in your emails, really enjoy them. Sounds like all is going well there. keep up with you on FB. Take care, Love, Barb
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Barb, thank you SO MUCH! You are and always have been a beautiful, gracious lady! I am glad you are feeling so comfortable in your smooth skin! I forgot about Around the Clock! All is well here and hope it’s the same for you and yours. xoxo
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