What I see when I look in the mirror.
I was fascinated to read this Substack post from the ever excellent Farrah Storr:
In it Farrah, who, I can attest is a very attractive woman - vexes over her sense of self-doubt about her appearance, a habit which stretches back to her childhood. She is desperate to be beautiful from an early age and considers herself to be a ‘five’ ( out of ten) when comes to looks. She catalogues all the efforts she has made over the years to achieve the ideal of beauty, and all the money she has spent to that end.
It is a beautifully written, humble and enlightening piece. In it Farah suggests, only half jokingly, that if she had her way, she would have had a face transplant years ago.
Of course it’s not news that women, even beautiful women, struggle with their self-image. Many of the same women believe they have been tricked into this by the patriarchy or the beauty industry, that they are in a state of false consciousness that they cannot escape.
It may be so. All I would add is, it isn’t only women that struggle with their appearance. It happens to men too, and far more often than you might think. We all live, more than ever, before in a visual, instagrammed, dating App world. Men have no free pass.
Even before the advent of social media, this was true. I have hated my face ever since I was a child and some cruel other children called me ‘Franco’ ( short for Frankenstein) because I had mild facial scarring - a hare lip and a scar on my cheek.
All through youth and adulthood I daily scanned the image in my mirror, hoping for some improvement, but all I saw instead was Mr Potato Head. It wasn’t that I was ugly exactly - just deeply deeply unremarkable. There was nothing that spoke of dignity or intellect or strength. Just a pink blob.
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