I sit in front of my laptop. Open the document I've been working on for two weeks now. The title sits defiantly at the top of the page, bold, size 30, underlined. A title that stood for everything I wanted to tell the world. I work as a motivational speaker, for teenagers with low self-esteem, problems, issues they need to overcome, you get the idea. I'm new to the trade, though. Only been doing this a year or so. Still, schools like me because I charge low prices. After all, it's not like the children really listen. I try my best, of course. I try to help them. But at the end of the day, I'm what, twenty-two? Not that different from them. My boss thinks it helps me connect with them. Personally, I think it just makes it hard for me not to get emotionally tangled. They're a lot more like me than I expect.
We Are All Beautiful. The title of my latest speech. For teenagers who feel ugly, who are anorexic, get teased at school, so on and so forth. I'm going to tell these teenagers that nobody is really ugly, that we all have our own inner beauty. It's what's in the heart that matters. They shouldn't listen to the bullies who call them ugly. They should look in the mirror and feel confident about who they are. That is real beauty- not the garbage that society has imposed upon us. I allow myself a wry smile. A part of me is still the defiant rebel kid from long ago. I close my eyes. Pull up a few pictures of ultra-thin, picture perfect, straight-haired models from online to emphasise my point. It's ridiculous to expect all society to look like that. We all have imperfections. We should embrace them. Turn against society.
In the chair beside me, my colleague, Rebecca, glances over at my title and gives an approving nod. It's well known in the office that this is a topic I feel really strongly about. I usually end up with all the appearance-wise speeches. And I deliver each one with growing passion. I'm not sure how many people know why I feel so strongly about it, though. The answer's pretty obvious. Not for the first time I raise my eyes to the small mirror on my desk. The still-fading teen acne, misaligned teeth, slightly lopsided eyes glance back at me. I quickly look away. Society, I tell myself, Society's fault, not mine. We all have beautiful imperfections. If something ugly can be beautiful. I banish the stray thought. I'm not ugly. I'm not ugly!
A private message pops up in the corner of my screen. It's from my best friend, Richard. I ignored it. Haven't been speaking to him for a few days now. My mind goes back to what happened a week or so ago.
We'd been sitting around in his car, going to play golf or whatever, and I'd told him about this whole speech I was going to give. He'd turned to me and said in a joking manner, something he should have known better than to say, really. "You know why you're always so keen on this whole beauty issue? It's because it bothers you personally. If you were prettier you wouldn't care. I mean, it doesn't really matter does it, unless you're ugly?" he told me. The words still stung. Is that what my best friend thought of me? That I was just an ugly girl trying to defend a lost cause? I guess what made it worse is that I was hopelessly in love with Richard. Not that I intended to tell him. But he thought I was ugly. Who wouldn't, I suppose.
It wasn't that I was really angry with him. I guess I'm just hurt. I don't know how to face him. Because there is some truth in what he said. If I was prettier, maybe I wouldn't care so much about the plight of society and beauty. But I wasn't. And maybe that's why I was so uptight about it. Not some noble urge to defend people. Not some instinct to uphold the truth. Just the sad, resentful writings of an ugly girl. It stung. It really stung. Because it did bother me. Despite all the things I say about inner beauty, about cherishing yourself, about accepting yourself the way you were, it bothered me that I wasn't pretty. I looked at a curly-haired, pearly-teeth, perfect-skin model on my screen. It was what I was supposed to argue against, the insanely high standards of society. I was supposed to show how it was crazy to want to look like that. But it bothered me, that I didn't look like that. It bothered me that I looked like the opposite of that.
I opened one of those junk emails. Screaming at me to get some plastic surgery. Make my lips fuller, get rid of my premature frown lines, straighten my teeth. I couldn't stop staring at the pictures. Society, I told myself, Society's lies. Don't fall for it. But I couldn't erase the image of straight white teeth, pretty skin, a good figure. Richard telling me I was pretty. Society said I was ugly. Richard said I was ugly. Did it really matter how I became pretty? Did it really matter that it would be only skin deep? Did it really matter that "pretty" wasn't truly pretty? I wanted it.
My own words flooded back to me. Society's idea of pretty might not be right. True beauty comes from the inside. Don't let others tell you who you are. Did I ever really mean it? Did I really believe that inner beauty was all that mattered? Or was I just trying to comfort myself? The link to a plastic surgery clinic was at the bottom of the email. Right under that was the "Close Email" button.
I looked at my speech again. Then back at the mirror. The message from Richard flashed urgently. Inner beauty was important. Society set us unrealistic standards. The most important beauty was confidence. You had to accept yourself to be really happy, or being pretty would mean nothing.
But my teeth would be straight. My eyes would be wide and glittering. My skin would be porcelain. I'd go against everything I wanted to say. But Richard would admire me. At least, he'd admire my exterior.
Inner beauty. Was it wrong to want outer beauty too? But what if "outer beauty" was not what they said it was? I bit my lip with my mismatched teeth. Stared at the computer screen, but also at my reflection in it.
I'd make my decision. And I'd stick to it.
I clicked.
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