Finding Beauty In the Pits
When I was five, my parents considered getting me a rhinoplasty. There was nothing functionally wrong with my nose; it was just too big for my face. The base of my nose splayed wide and upturned, while my nose bridge stayed flat. It was a large lump that commanded unkind attention from the kids at school. Their words hurt me, but I think they hurt my parents more. In their minds, a simple nose job could stop the insensitive remarks and build my confidence. Obviously, no reputable surgeon would operate on a child that young. I started wearing nose clips in an attempt to alter the contour of my nose. It didn’t work.
By the age of sixteen, my nose was no longer the only peculiar feature in my physical appearance. I wore thick glasses that were constantly sliding down my face. While other girls in my grade were developing womanly curves, I developed a pudgy midsection. Finally, as if I was God’s favorite joke, I sported a mullet due to a misunderstanding with my hair stylist. Needless to say, boys were not interested in me. I wasn’t very good at making friends either.
But in the summer before I started college, my physical appearance went through a dramatic change. My baby fat melted off, uncovering a leaner physique that made me feel less childish. My hair had grown out and I swapped out my glasses for contacts. Even my nose had assimilated to my face – it was still the same shape, but my newly revealed cheekbones complimented it well. With my new appearance, I noticed how strangers were nicer to me, it was easier to make friends, and I even got asked out on dates. I was determined to do anything to keep the influence and attention that came with being conventionally attractive. I followed fashion and beauty trends religiously. Every stray hair was plucked and I never left the house without makeup on. Still, I always felt that there was more I could do to improve my appearance.
When COVID lockdown struck, I found myself isolated in my apartment with no one to get ready for. It was the first time that the way others perceived me was not a factor in my day-to-day life. It was strange and lonely to go weeks without human interaction; yet, there was a sense of freedom to explore my identity and confidence without any external influence. Slowly, I started embracing my natural physical form. I made the decision to stop wearing makeup and grow out my body hair. I particularly enjoyed letting my underarm hair grow out. Something about it was powerful – I had always kept my underarms bare to fit societal norms, but now I embraced the new hair growth, letting it flourish like a lush garden. It was a part of me that had been suppressed, and allowing it to exist felt liberating. Unfortunately, as lockdown eased, comments from men triggered my insecurities about appearing too masculine and unhygienic, so I went back to regularly removing my underarm hair.
Last spring, my friend Jana and I went backpacking through the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. Hiking through both high temperatures and chilling, heavy downpours, Jana was beaming the entire time. She found delight in meeting other hikers along the way and her daily stressors dissipated in the fresh, mountain air. She embodied this renewed energy through joyful singing and belly laughs. Jana was beautiful, inside and out – and she had visible underarm hair.
But she didn’t seem self-conscious about it. Jana threw her arms up to cheer for other hikers making it up a steep climb. She waved her arms around while dancing by the bonfire. She allowed her feminine energy to move through her, authentically and in its entirety. Her physical appearance didn’t matter; her aura was magnetic and every part of her being supported the manifestation of that essence. It was the first time I considered underarm hair to be a feminine trait. I suddenly felt silly for caring what others, especially men, thought about my underarm hair. After that trip, I was determined to find the confidence to embrace my underarm hair rather than removing or hiding it.
The shift in my perspective of redefining femininity was a catalyst to finally discovering self-acceptance, rather than relying on the validation of others around me. I allowed myself to feel joy and fascination with my underarm hair. I spent a lot of time looking at it in the mirror, feeling its coarse texture run between my fingers. I imagined myself like the women I saw in vintage photographs, back before razor companies started promoting hair removal for women. I found humor in the occasional side-eye glances and double takes from those around me. To feel unapologetically comfortable in my body and to affirm myself felt more powerful than any superficial influence I could have on others.
I also learned to reframe other “imperfect” parts of myself. I grew to love my legs, which had always felt a little too thick when pulling up skinny jeans, for their strength and resilience in taking me on many great and wild adventures. I started embracing the fine lines and wrinkles developing around my eyes, cherishing them as proof that I’ve lived a joyful life. I stopped caring how “dorky” I came across to others, because my enthusiasm for unusual interests allows me to think outside the box and develop my compassion for others.
Seeing how my “flaws” have actually served me helped me redefine beauty. In an age where injectables and plastic surgery have become the norm, embracing our authentic selves with acceptance, care, and appreciation unveils a beauty that transcends physicality. It’s what one exudes that makes the biggest difference – it’s in the charisma of our energy, the allure of our confidence, kindness, and gratitude that true beauty finds its captivating essence.
With this renewed understanding of beauty, I have taken a more lighthearted, fun approach to my appearance, choosing pieces and styles that spark joy within me. Whether it’s painting my eyebrows purple or wearing as many rhinestones as possible, dressing for myself keeps me connected with my place of empowerment and happiness.
At last, I am beautiful.