On Beauty

When I was little I was reconciled with being plain. This was partly due to not being blonde. Somewhere, somehow I’d decided that truly beautiful girls were blonde. Like Cinderella and Marilyn Monroe and the Timotei girl. It didn’t help that I walked to school with the two prettiest girls in my year, both blonde. It didn’t matter that my mum told me I was beautiful, she didn’t understand; she was blonde too. It just didn’t matter; I was perfectly adjusted to being plain – swarthy – messy-faced. It’s funny/strange/sad/completely understandable how external forces can validate you, so when my first boyfriend told me I was gorgeous I believed him. He bigged me up, infused me with a self-assured arrogance that carried me through to thirty. Not necessarily beautiful, not pretty, but attractive to some. Attractive enough to those discerning enough to appreciate non-blonde, non-big-boobed, non-long-legged women. I was also fortunate to be vivacious enough to seem prettier than I actually was. 

   But now I’m forty the mirror shows a face sliding south, I’m fast becoming that dismal cowboy dog, Droopy. But beauty isn’t always how we look, it can be how we feel, how we move. When I was dancing last week I had a revelation, I am beautiful when I dance. Not pretty, not attractive but beautiful. Nia has done wonders for me. Physically I am fitter; it gets me out of bed at the weekend for a 9.00 am boogie and on Tuesdays I dance away my stress. I don’t have to feel ancient and out of place in a nightclub, I don’t have to drink. And I am beautiful. It might be how I move my arm with a melody, it might be how I punch with power, shout with passion. Surrounding me are others of all ages, shapes, places and we are all beautiful together!

Happy Belated Women's Day!

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