Some months ago, while I was out shoe shopping with a friend, I happened to look at her feet and exclaimed, “Oh, you have such pretty feet!”
To which she replied, “I don’t have pretty feet! They’re too wide.”
At first, it struck me as bizarre that feet could be disqualified from the beauty stakes because they are too wide. I judged my friend for having bought into the beauty myth.
Then, it struck me that I was no different. After all, how had I arrived at the conclusion that her feet were pretty? What standards had I measured them by? Let me see.
She had no spots or marks on her feet. Her toenails were well-shaped and painted a pleasant colour. Overall, her feet looked delicate and ‘well-kept’ – in other words, the feet of a woman who does not have to trudge miles in the sun and can afford to have regular pedicures done. This is what I meant by pretty feet, but what had taught me that feet need to look this way in order to be called pretty?
And, do feet even need to be judged – as pretty or not? For that matter, what about other body parts? Why must a woman’s skin not have any spots or signs of ageing? What will go wrong with the world if my waist is thicker at 35 than it was at 25? Who will faint or have a seizure if my legs show some hair?
I realise I am using a whole lot of question marks, but the truth is that I have no clear answers. I find the constant barrage of perfect images the world throws at me horrifying – and this is no longer just a question of advertising images, which one could still ignore, because you know they are make-believe. No; perfect images have now insinuated themselves into much of the content we consume – such as cleverly put together advertorial copy (that is not disclosed as advertorial) or the photo-shopping of almost-perfect celebrity images to reach even higher zones of perfection.
While this horrifies me, a part of me still wants to be a part of it. This is the part that has internalized these images and automatically judges feet as pretty or not.
Gradually, womanhood is becoming a collection of images that we must all aspire to (and spend large amounts of money on attaining). I understand that the word ‘feminine’ is loaded, but I would like it to refer to a set of qualities such as empathy, compassion, tenderness, insight, generosity and kindness that were traditionally seen as the preserve of women. These qualities are now prized by a growing number of men too.
I do not want the feminine to become an exclusive club for those with age-defying skin, voluminous hair and manicured nails. I am woman. I do not want to have to qualify.
What do you think? Discuss what you consider as the role of beauty in your own lives or what you view as the “requirement” to be accepted as woman? The best comment will win a Women’s Web coffee mug as a prize from Women’s Web! What are you waiting for? Leave your name, email–ID and comment below! Contest closes on March 14, 2012 night, Indian time.
I was 19 the first time I went to a beauty parlour. I grew up in a small town and had a traditional mother, so this outing was clandestine, to be confessed after the trip. I wanted to trim and shape my shaggy eyebrows, because I had found out that people who possessed such bow-shaped brows got them ‘done’ in some manner. So I went to the local beauty parlour’s front office, a room with pink walls and pink furniture. A woman who had obviously benefited from the parlour’s services greeted me with a smile. Yes, what would I like? Shape my eyebrows, I said nervously, pointing to my eyes. No wax today? She grasped my arm with its fluffy hair I kind of liked. Oh, look, fuzz, she said, pointing to my upper lip. No threading for upper lip and chin? Sure? I thought about it and agreed. It was only an extra 10 rupees. Let’s start, she said, pointing me to a large, comfortable chair. Gomathi, she called. A rotund woman not much older than me came in. Eyebrows, upper lip, chin, she said. I leaned back, as she powdered my face and started twisting the thread. As she worked she saw the tears in the corners of my eyes. “Sorry, does that hurt? You have such thick hair and looks like you have never plucked it before.” She was skilled and pulled out the hair on my face super fast while I stopped biting back the tears. Then I was given a hand mirror. See, how nice it looks? I had to agree. My face looked, well, civilized. I looked just like everybody else. My smooth-as-a-baby face seemed like a wax doll to me. But I also felt a little dirty inside. Did I really have to do this? Was I any less beautiful with my wild eyebrows and peach fuzz? What did ‘beautiful’ mean anyway? I thanked Gomathi Akka, paid and left. I liked the way my eyebrows looked, but I knew I was catering to a conformity and that did not feel right. In a flash of knowledge I realized what I liked about my appearance. I looked FEMININE. So did that mean that mean the hair grew back I would turn into something not-feminine, not-woman, not-ideal? Why did I care so much anyway? It was push-me-pull-you. But I wanted to experiment with the next painful (and expensive) beautification procedure and I decided to get my arms and legs waxed. I was probably what they called a post-feminist, and it did not matter if my aspiration for beauty was only to display my evolutionary fitness, as popular magazines said. I liked the soft feeling of my legs against my salwar’s fabric.
At the end of that session I knew the entire regiment of women who worked in that parlour. Gomathi akka, Malar akka, Priya akka and Sherin akka. I would go in the evenings after college, close to their closing time. I would see the women plucking each other’s eyebrows and chattering about their lives. Gomathi and Sherin were engaged and would quit their jobs when they would get married. Priya had two children in school and she would pick them up after school and keep them in her ‘office’ with her till they went home. Malar was unmarried. Every month, they got a free pass for a facial from their boss and they looked forward to it. The recommended their facials to their customers – “see it really opens up those pores,” making me feel like a clogged sink. Yet they were frank about the limitations of their trade – “I am dark skinned and that’s why no one wants to marry me,” said Malar matter-of-factly to me one day. “It’s not like I can change my appearance at will. It won’t make me a different person, will it?” They were real women, tall and short, dark and light skinned, and they, in their own ways, knew that these aspirations of beauty or femininity they catered to did not necessarily make people ‘women’. That realization made me more comfortable in my skin, and helped me tie up my femininity, not to something as mundane as hair, it’s length, its presence or lack, but to something inside me that resonated with the good sense of the women in the beauty parlour.
Beauty is indeed in the eyes of the beholder ! Where exactly does one draw the line to become hot looking and will that mean a contended state of mind ? Definitely any woman likes to be adored and revered and most of all respected. I would say a Woman is beautiful and perfect when she is comfortable in her own skin and exudes innate sensitivity, positivism,warmth and radiance.There is no stopping her then !
Loved the article thoroughly.
Absolutely loved the last sentence. It’s about time we took a stand!