How to Be Less Ugly
for you, me and America
If I get quiet and still, to think about only what’s true, my first thought is usually, I wanna put on my pregnancy underwear.
That underwear is so fucking stretched out from the protruding belly I carried last year that it can no longer stay on my frame anymore. I can no longer wear them with a dress, otherwise they shimmy themselves off me with every step I take until I’m moving in awkwardly large strides to keep them from lassoing my ankles. I have three pairs like this. I can’t bring myself to throw them away. They are so lavishly comfortable and breathable. Like having an airy Queen size sheet loosely wrapped around my ass. I love them. I love them. I love them. After a long hard day, I can’t wait to dive into ‘em.
I can’t wear them in public. Even in pants. What pant fabric could conceal such aggressive bunchiness? But if I didn’t care about anyone else’s thoughts or opinions, if I cared only about my comfort and serenity, I might find a way to wear them everywhere, every day. I think about it each morning when I open up my underwear drawer to assess my options. What if I lived in a world capable of accepting such genuineness.
Whenever I scan my closet, I favor short sleeved, floor length dresses, giving me the ability to hide my legs and underarms which may or may not be perfectly hairless depending on the business of my week or depression. I live in Silverlake, where the attitude towards female body hair seems 50/50 split. I know intellectually it is healthier for me and my boobs not to shave or laser my armpits. I know I’ve been brainwashed to believe I’m more valuable with smooth underarms no matter how relentlessly my Greek body hair fights back. But knowing I’m brainwashed doesn’t un-brainwash me. I see fabulous, admirable women with exposed underarm hair all the time, and I want what they seemingly have in their minds, freedom from misguided shame. I worry I’d disappoint them or appear judgmental when my underarms are bald and exposed. Short sleeved, floor length outfits solve all these concerns no matter what state my pits and legs are in. The “groomed girlies” can assume I’m hairless, and the chic “freedom seekers” can assume I’m fearless. And I can exist however I do that day without adding something as frivolous as body hair to my long list of useless anxieties.
Did I just admit all of that out loud? How much I overthink my unwanted hair and why it’s even unwanted in the first place? Whatever. I’m a product of my environment. Open up a book, or better yet, an instagram. Spend two days as a woman making a living on camera in the early aughts while attending a High School in Santa Monica, and tell me you can easily silence the voice in your head incessantly telling you to up your hotness.
hot·ness /ˈhätnəs/ noun, a state of sexy attractiveness with ever changing guidelines depending on your location and place in history. the older you get, the less likely you are to achieve anything close to it. hotness is the wind; you might feel it for a moment, but don’t bet on catching it.
Here is why I’m writing about this obsession now; my workload has been especially time-consuming lately. I’m currently writing a book, two feature films, this Substack, taking classes to receive my Master’s, and raising a toddler. Things like wrinkle-free clothes and “everything showers” have fallen by the wayside. And as a result I’ve been feeling… no other way to put it… ugly. It doesn’t matter that my babe of a husband still can’t keep his hands off me. I’ve been overworked, avoiding my usual beauty appointments and that extra five minutes in the mirror, so I’m failing my own expectations of me. And I’m taken aback by how much this feeling of ugliness is strangling my self-esteem. My self-esteem should be at an all time high. Did you not just read the list of shit I’m accomplishing? Why isn’t my badass-ness alone making me feel sexy as hell? I’m a loving mother, a prolific author, and a straight-A graduate student, but if I don’t believe my community will see me as hot then who fucking cares? Ugh. My internalized misogyny always rides shotgun doesn’t she.
I’m curious to know where the line is; what is “letting myself go” and what is living freely. On a scale of cosmetic surgery to pregnancy underpants, where do I want to live? Where am I allowed to live with respect in this godforsaken shallow city I call home?
I want to live somewhere I can win. Because, as it stands now, here was my thought process while getting ready for my much needed walk this morning; Ew your hair is dirty and your roots are grimy, cover it up with a hat, but ew this hat looks awful, your ears stick out, you look like a sad little boy. Take the hat off and just slick it all into a sleek presentable bun, no hat, but wait, remember that doctor who told you you’re too old to let your face see the sun for even a moment? You gotta find a hat. Ew, cover those hairy legs. How did you not make time to shave them? Ew, cover that too. Fix that, cover that.
I’m too driven to be wasting time in unfounded shame spirals. How many of us are less present friends, parents, problem solvers etc. because of them?
It would be great to pick the brain of a sociologist; I imagine it’s even worse for millennials than it is for our parents’ generation. It seems as though vicious criticism of the female form peaked in media during our school years. The brutal Married with Children jokes aimed at women could only have thrived in our childhood, too distasteful to air in the Boomer generation, too un-woke for Gen Z’s. I know it’s bad for everyone, and easier for me to see through my own lens. I wonder how many inner voices are as rude as mine. I wonder how much of my cruel thoughts are a direct result of my place in history. Gen Z has no doubt been cursed with having to manage the inundation of unattainable, filtered faces, but I envy the discourse simultaneously available to them while their brains took shape. The concept of internalized misogyny wasn’t introduced to me until after significant, lifelong wiring had already taken place. My instincts, my inner most layer of the onion, automatically prioritize aesthetics before my soul gets a chance to weigh in. What happens if I walk outside without “fixing” myself? Will it kill me? Some days, deep down, it feels like it will.
Millennials are often criticized for being obsessed with themselves, and their image, which is why I’m cringing with each word I type. I’m posting this anyway because a mass population of women religiously hating themselves matters. A woman is running for president. Against a senile, demagogic, truth-averse rapist who built a brand on scams. And we still worry she might not win. And we all know fucking why.
I actually didn’t come here to write a preachy Substack post about how much my society hates women. Every election year we all become expert blamers and finger pointers, and I want to live in a world of responsibility-takers. So here goes my contribution: I hate women. My capacity to criticize a woman has been especially highlighted for me in the last couple weeks; when I hate myself for not resembling an unattainable image, I’m internally setting all women up to fail. I’m strengthening the muscle that silently rips all women apart for existing as they are. Our intrapersonal communication is just a microcosm of the world that birthed it. And then our ideas find big and small ways to slip out, affecting each environment we breathe in. When I use the word ugly to describe the face my mother gave me, even silently, I’m playing a part, however small, in the systemic sexism that may contribute to the end of our democracy for fuck’s sake. They are not, not connected!
The awareness feels like a meaningful step. I can spot the piece of me that rejects all women every time my mirror disgusts me. Every time I can’t hear a woman speaking over the sound of my intrusive thoughts about her ‘overdone botox’ I’m indirectly supporting a movement that wants a sexual predator back in office. I don’t wanna live like this anymore. And yet, I’m counting down the days ’til my next hair appointment so I can hate myself just a little less.
The difference between what I find beautiful and what I’ve been trained to find beautiful is a mystery to me. I only know that I’m sometimes temporarily soothed by what I find easy on the eyes. And the win today is that it’s not always an unrealistic expectation of my physical appearance, sometimes it’s my sleeping husband, sometimes it’s his lumpy latte art. Sometimes it’s my child’s hand dimples. (Those hand dimples stop me in my tracks, and I will host a memorial service at my house for them one day if I have to).
I’ve never been able to think my way into behaving differently. I’ve only ever been able to behave my way into thinking differently. Which means that if I really want to change my aching mind or community, I need to at least start my day by pointing to the mirror no matter what the hell I see, and saying “Hot damn! It’s babe-o’clock!” I have to leave the house no matter how unworthy I feel, seeking more skin than screens, pointing to every cheek, heart and knee I find, and calling it what it is: Gorgeous! Miraculous! Meaningful! An integral piece of the big picture! The more I do it the more I’ll believe it. Everyone’s beauty grows.
Keep calling yourself ugly if you have to. I know how hard that train is to jump off of. But start noticing to whom you’re transferring power each time you tear yourself down. Notice how much uglier the rest of us seem after you spit lies about your value. Attempt new slogans about how beautiful you are, out loud and in your head, even if you don’t believe them. Do it for you, me and America.
♥
Signing off with some recent ugly-free moments:
I enjoyed reading this and relate to much of what you shared. I wore my nursing bras for 2 years after stopping breastfeeding because they were just that comfy and I didn't give a damn that they didn't lift my girls up in any way. At the same time, I have stayed in the house simply because I felt ugly. For me, the beast was hormonal acne. I said no to so much because I didn't want to put myself through the constant worrying about my appearance. Social media only made me more self-conscious. In hindsight, I can see how unfortunate it was that I felt that way and how it wouldn't have mattered because everyone is thinking about their own shit, not mine, but alas....I had to go through it to learn the lesson(s).
You put sooo many things to words here, Alexandra, that I simply haven't been able to. Thank you 💜 ~ e