At Face Value: An Open Letter to Chipped Nails & Skinned Knees
At Face Value: An Open Letter to Chipped Nails & Skinned Knees
“If you told me that I literally had to eat poop every single day and I would look younger, I might. I just might.” Those are the words of Kim Kardashian in an interview with Rachel Strugatz for The New York Times. The article is about Kim’s new skincare line, featuring a $95 face oil.
Growing up in the Pacific Northwest meant a childhood largely spent outdoors. Small rainboots splashing mud on pumpkin patch trips. Hands full of rocks and shells plucked off gloomy beaches. Staring up at Western Red Cedars stretching to infinity. Dirt under fingernails and eyelashes blinking out the rain — all that mattered was that my legs could hoist me up rocky trails and that there were enough Band-Aids in the bathroom cabinet for when I fell off my bicycle.
This, unfortunately, could only suffice for so long. After some time, it was no longer enough that my strong legs allowed me to leap and that my calloused hands supported my monkey bar swings.
I’ve been the same height that I am now at 21 since I was about 13. When people say that “girls mature faster than boys,” they aren’t just talking about emotional intelligence. On average, girls begin puberty about two years earlier than boys, roughly between the ages of 8 and 13. I’ve been in a woman’s body since before I was legally deemed an adult woman. And accordingly, I’ve experienced womanly pressures since then. Principally, physical pressures. Once you pass a certain threshold, your hands are expected to be smooth rather than calloused — your body unblemished rather than worn. Badges of honor go from rocks and shells to winged eyeliner and unchipped nails.
But just like I enjoyed wearing princess costumes for Halloween then, it’s fun to play dress-up now. It’s still a satisfying game to wear a dress that hugs me and to emerge into the world with skin spotless, lips rouged, and cheekbones high. But the game has taken a frigid turn. The girls I once played with have now become adversaries in some incidental capacity — teammates turned opponents. But what exactly are we competing for? Who set the rules? And why do they keep changing?
Because no matter how smooth my skin is, someone else’s seems to be smoother, glossier, and more radiant. Cheekbones loftier, lips fuller, and waist tighter, often as a result of digital or surgical intervention, both of which are advancing, like most technology, on an ever-steepening curve.
Where is the trophy? Is there a trophy?
Society often reduces discussions of freedom to discussions of choice. And gaining choice is undeniably a part of gaining freedom. Humans have all experienced a lack of decision-making power at some point in their lives, whether it’s lacking the opportunity to choose ice cream for dinner when you’re six, or lacking the capacity to live a fulfilling life because of a fixed, marginalized facet of your identity. As people grow up, they gain some level of freedom after detaching from their parents and accessing new chances to decide from a vast menu of choices. It’s easy to talk about freedom in this way because regardless of their social locations, most adult humans have eventually gained the choice, and thus the freedom, to choose ice cream for dinner.
But just because we can choose ice cream for dinner doesn’t mean we should.
Reducing discussions of freedom, discussions of feminism, to purely issues of choice diminishes the invisible forces that dictate certain decisions. The imperceptible puppeteer with his fists full of marionette strings, plucking and yanking as he pleases. Injustice isn’t always so binary. It’s not always black and white, day and night, old and young, beautiful and ugly. This or that. Because oftentimes, the choice has already been made before you even have the chance to make it yourself.
The cosmetic industry works hard to make it look like you’re holding the magic wand, floating through the world on a pink cloud, swiping your credit card, willingly deciding which parts of yourself to hate. Deciding which parts of yourself to fix so you can finally be empowered. The power to choose — Botox or Juvéderm? Debit or credit?
When we were children, attempting to scale cherry trees and skip stones, we didn’t yet know that cellulite was something to loathe and wrinkles were something to fear. Our insecurities weren’t intuitive, they were learned. Like spelling and fractions.
Women should have choices. All people should have the opportunity to live the life they wish to have. And it’s worth interrogating the choices we’re given, particularly those offered in a world largely controlled by just a handful of bloated, male-led corporations. If “empowerment,” means changing my appearance to fit dramatic standards, defined by patriarchal values and consistently changed and made more complicated by way of technological and medical advancement, is so-called “disempowerment” so bad? What fun is a game of Double Dutch, if new jump ropes keep getting added? Each one trying to trip a different part of you.
In middle school, the thought of posting a photo on Instagram without running it through FaceTune was laughable. And in high school, I clutched my pearls at the thought of not waking up at 5:30 AM to paint on a full face of makeup before my classes. Today, when I go out with friends, I often prefer to apply some blush to my cheeks, brush some mascara on my eyelashes, and don a stylish outfit. Other times, I like to go out with a bare face, freckles and eye bags visible, and hair tossed up in a clip. For concerts, maybe I’ll smudge some green eyeshadow on my lids to match my earrings, along with a subpar eyeliner wing. I post makeup-less photos on social media, pimples noticeable, and I don’t bat much of an eye. I don’t buy $95 face oils, but I enjoy the occasional sheet mask. “Beauty” somehow remains a comfort, an annoyance, and a rhythm all at once.
There are many times when I walk into a clothing store and catch myself staring in the mirror for too long with a critical eye. At 21, I still feel many of the pressures I felt at 13. They are hard to forget once you learn them, like riding a bicycle. Fortunately, old dogs can learn new tricks. And contrary to patriarchal and capitalist requests, I only hope my body and mind have the privilege to endure time. Be weathered by the sun. Scraped by the earth. With wrinkles and scars, from tumbles off bicycles, to display as new badges of honor.
