While growing up I adopted and endorsed a very Eurocentric idea of beauty, I would religiously subscribe to the Feminas and Cosmopolitans and obsess over actresses and models, their height, their weight and their complexion ( mostly bleached), then when I saw myself in the mirror, a short, dark and hairy person looked back at me and I hated myself. I so desperately wanted to look like the actresses that I would get myself bleached, waxed and threaded, yelping in pain throughout the ordeal. My complexion and body hair seemed to be my biggest enemies.
The fortnightly parlor visits filled me up with both anticipation and dread. I would grow impatient towards the forthcoming date of the parlor visit as by then my body hair was back with a vengeance and I grew conscious about how I looked, confident about my own ugliness.
I grew more comfortable in my own skin during my early twenties, I believe it was largely due to a sudden and unabated exposure to Youtube videos where women opened up about their insecurities and suddenly my experience was shared by thousands of women and girls from all around the world. I realized how our experiences were stifled by selective representation of beauty and body standards making us hate ourselves for absolutely no reason. I obviously can’t go back and show myself how truly beautiful I were ( maybe I managed to do it in a parallel universe where time is non linear), but the older me loves the warm color of her skin and embraces her body with an abundance of love and patience.
And the fortnightly salon visits have transformed into regular gym visits because strength is always beautiful.
Fingers in symphony 