Just enough
I stared at myself in the mirror for three hours because I like a boy and I am not sure if he will like me, too. Because I have heard that boys like girls who look like this or that. For the first time I am caring about how I look, and asking myself: Am I really pretty? Am I really ugly? I don’t have big breasts, nor do I have a butt big enough for twerking. My shape is not as curvy as Beyonce’s, my eyes aren’t as tantalizing as Gigi Hadid’s. I am not tall either; for goodness’ sake, I don’t even have a fair complexion.
For the first time it hits me hard: I don’t like how I look. I used to be so confident about being myself that I didn’t even care to put on a “kilay on fleek.” I had always believed that I was pretty. And somehow, I knew that not all would appreciate my beauty, but I also believed the few who said I was. Because I felt that I was.
I have never cared about the images that the capitalists display. I have always been apathetic toward them. I thought I was truly content with who I was and how I looked. But for the first time I am staring at myself with discontent. My hair is short — why did I cut it this short? I am skinny — God, I look like this kid I saw in a documentary.
I thought I would not be one of those shallow creatures (I think in my condescending human brain) who wear makeup every day just to look like someone else. But now, my, my, I badly want to go to the store and grab some mascara, eyebrow liner, blush-on …
Man, do I need that Kojic soap? Or the Belo Essentials? My skin’s so ugly and dark. I see dark spots—oh, God, I need Nivea, too. Or do I need just one product to erase all the ugliness in me?
After three hours of staring at myself in the mirror, I just want to cry, because I am not who I think I am. I have realized that the world doesn’t see me the way I see myself. I have
been walking in this world all these years believing that I am enough — well, not that I am the prettiest, but at least enough, just enough.
I thought I was free of these chains, of these devouring
expectations. But I am not.
These images of an ideal woman are like a panther in the wilderness prowling and waiting for me to walk into a cul-de-sac. Then, when I am at my dead end, it jumps right at me, taking me by surprise, bending the bones of my perceptions and bloodily devouring my ideals together with my self-esteem. And all these happen just within the three hours I am staring at myself in the mirror. It’s a crime unspeakable.
And I know that the next time I look at myself in the mirror, it won’t be the same again. I won’t be the same again.
And I can’t believe that this is happening just because I like a boy and I am not sure that he will like me, too, because I hear that boys like girls who look like this and that.
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Lady Mae Lao, 22 is a senior journalism student at Mindanao State University.
