I’m Not Pretty, I Don’t Try to Be, and I’m Okay with That

When I was in my mid-thirties, I worked at a school near my house and would ride my bike there each day in my efforts to reduce my carbon footprint. I used to love to dress up for the kids, trying to make my sartorial expression match the charm of my powder blue cruiser. I loved to wear cute skirts and blouses, boots and scarves. The kids got such a kick out of it — I was the teacher who looked like a modern-day Anne Shirley (minus the red hair).

Underneath that charming exterior, though, was the reality of bicycle commuting: I almost always arrived to work sweaty, with my hair matted and windblown.

At the time, I worked with a group of young mothers. They arrived to work in their cars with their little ones behind them, fresh from their showers. Their hair was always smooth and sprayed into place. They always had beautifully applied makeup, and their nails — fingers and toes — were always flawlessly painted.

I remember one morning, I came in, huffing and puffing from my ride. I took off my helmet, tried to shake out the rat’s nest of my hair, and one of my co-workers, the one who was known for the being the most glamorous of our group, said, while applying a fresh coat of lip gloss, “You’re so earthy, Yael.”

I cringed a little, even though I knew she didn’t mean any harm by the comment. I looked at my short, unpainted nails. I thought of my barely made-up face. I knew my hair was a knotted mess and I was sweaty and flustered.

I knew I wasn’t the prettiest person in the world and certainly not the most feminine or well-kept. Sometimes, I wished I was more inclined to make myself a little fancier. A little more…polished.

But by the time I was in my thirties, I knew myself well enough to know I was always going to be a little wild, a little dirty, a little…uncouth. And that was okay by me.

I was always a wild girl as a child, dirt stains on my pants, messy hair. Most little girls are so wonderfully free.

It’s when puberty hits that we get mind-fucked into knots.

Once I was 12 and saw how the world was responding to my new appearance— in both wonderful and horrific ways — I became obsessed, for a short time, with beauty. All of a sudden, I went from wanting to be a writer or marine biologist to wanting to be Vanna White. (No shade on Vanna, but it makes me sad that in so quick a moment, my aspirations suddenly shrank to wanting to stand in front of a camera wearing pretty gowns and lots of makeup and waving my arms around.)

I had braces at the time — mortifying — and I’d get frustrated that my gold earrings clashed with the silver hardware on my teeth. My dad used to get so angry with me because I was never ready to leave the house on time — I was too busy trying to find earrings that looked pretty enough with my braces. I even used to wake up at four in the morning in order to crimp my hair — a task that took hours.

Beauty turned out to feel quite dangerous and for the rest of my teen years, after a year of enduring endless bullying, harassment, and assault, I both eschewed the effort to try to be beautiful, while still trying to find ways to conform without bringing too much notice to myself.

I wore baggy clothes, but I tried to keep my nails painted. I didn’t wear much makeup, but I brushed my hair between every class, trying to keep it smooth and pretty.

I remember the despair I felt when I read a survey in a magazine that said most men preferred tall, athletic (skinny) brunettes with long, straight hair, who wore red lipstick and nail polish regularly. I was medium-height and curvy with shoulder-length, wavy blonde hair. And I never wore red lipstick or nail polish.

Though I still cringe at the idea of a magazine publishing such damaging trash, I’m almost glad I read that. In a way, it made me give up on trying so hard to look beautiful.

I have always been active with my hands. I play piano, I garden, I do the dishes without gloves on… Wearing nail polish was always such a pain in the ass; I was glad to give it up.

I hated the way it smelled. I hated that it made me feel trapped while I sat there for half an hour, waving my fingers, waiting for the polish to dry. Inevitably, it would be chipped within a day and then I’d start picking at it, making it look worse and worse until the next day, I’d be trapped again, putting on a new coat of polish, sitting there waiting for it dry.

It wasn’t worth it to me. I wanted to be able to use my hands. I didn’t want to feel like I had to protect them from the tasks of day to day living. The thought seemed preposterous to me.

The next thing to go were my high heels. Admittedly, I only had one pair, but I remember clomping around in those damn things, barely able to keep my balance. I couldn’t run — I’m not as coordinated as Sarah Jessica Parker. I felt unstable. And worst of all, they fucking hurt. My feet would hurt so badly after just ten minutes, it was hard to keep walking. And after a few hours, my lower back would be a wreck.

I looked at them in the closet one day and wondered what the hell was I thinking? Was I really going to wear those shoes that made me feel like I could barely move in my own body? Shoes that would cause me such immense pain? Sure, I looked so beautiful and feminine in those shoes, but what kind of madness would make that worth what they did to my body?

So I tossed them, just like I tossed the nail polish.

I always hated lipstick. I’m very insecure about the way my lips look, so the last thing I wanted was to draw attention to them. I also hated the thick and slightly sticky feeling of all that product on my skin — even worse when it was a gloss.

Then I started getting allergic reactions to most makeup brands, so I stopped wearing mascara every day, and sometimes skipped the eye shadow or eyeliner.

I stopped curling my hair about five years ago. Suddenly, I was standing in front of the mirror, counting the hours I had spent there over the course of my life, and I thought, “God, I could be writing right now. Or baking. Or cuddling with my nieces and nephews. Or reading a good book. And instead I’m spending half an hour curling my hair every day. What a waste of my life.”

So I stopped. I just let the uneven natural waves do their own thing. I can’t say I love it…but I do love the extra time I have now that I don’t spend so much time in front of that damn mirror.

I stopped wearing antiperspirant, too. I don’t want all those chemicals near my lymph nodes and breast tissue. I make my own little concoction of baking soda, coconut oil, and cornstarch and it works wonders. Do I sweat? Sure. But I smell just fine. I smell like me, not like chemical fragrances.

I don’t use soap on my face, either, anymore. Or lotions or shampoos or conditioners. I make my own oils and balms and hair products.

I’ve pretty much reverted back into the wild little girl I used to be.

Yes, my hair is a damn mess every single day. And yes, it could be prettier, but I don’t care.

Yes, I don’t own a single pair of high heels and wouldn’t be tempted to buy a pair of shoes unless they were hiking boots or Uggs. Yes, I look prettier in heels than in my flat-footed boots, but I don’t care. I can move and jump and run and walk in the woods and my feet don’t hurt a bit.

Yes, my nails are natural and in the summer, I can rarely get the dirt out from behind them because my ungloved fingers are in the garden soil almost every single day. Yes, I would look cleaner, more elegant, if I kept them shaped and painted, but I don’t care. I want to be able to use my hands without worry or fuss.

Yes, I don’t smell like perfumes, like shampoos, like lotions. Yes, some people might prefer the familiar scent of those chemicals, but I don’t care. I smell like me. And I like that.

Yes, I am “earthy.” I guess I look like a feral little dog that just emerged from the woods. I guess I’m not pretty or feminine or elegant or refined. I still have dirt on my pants.

Sometimes, I wish I was pretty in the way that other women are pretty. I wish it was worth it to me to spend time on my nails and my makeup and my hair.

But life seems so short to me, other pleasures so much more appealing.

I’m happy being the messy, dirty, feral creature that I am. She’s beautiful in her own way.

And best of all, she’s doing what she loves to do, far away from the bathroom mirror.

© Yael Wolfe 2019