Pretty Girls

I was a goofy looking kid. My mother is the only one who would argue to the contrary, and let’s face it, that’s her job. I was scrawny and pale. All of my facial features and body parts were on their own separate growth and development plans and as a result didn’t hold together aesthetically as a whole. There were points in my growing up years where my school picture showcases disproportionate facial features not unlike those on Mrs. Potato Head. One family vacation photo reveals knees that seem larger than the thighs above them, arms not unlike toothpicks and yet a perfectly round little belly. It’s almost as if my tummy stole all the body fat that should have been dispersed throughout the remainder of my body. Of course the crowning glory of this particular photo is the bad perm that topped off my “eye catching” appearance. The good news is that we all grow up, but sometimes not as quickly as we would prefer.

I knew I was goofy looking; some of the other kids didn’t look like mutants. In fact my own brother was ALWAYS cute. He never had an “awkward phase.” He always looked adorable. Around 6th grade I was introduced to fashion magazines. Those girls were pretty and the magazine told you how to look just like them. Of course the adults in my life were quick to point out that even those girls didn’t really look like that on their own, they had makeup artists and stylists and talented photographers who made them look that way. Perfect! The solution to my problem was to be a model. Then I would be pretty.

Enter Barbizon modeling school. I discovered this wonderful institution in my Teen magazine among ads for breast growing cream and fat camps in the back of the issue. My mother humored me and made the call, conveniently they have offices everywhere and one was just an hour away. She made the appointment and we headed for Columbus. Unlike typical modeling agencies who take a cut from the fees a model is paid, this place “trains” you to be a model (for a hefty fee) and then help you find work. It was fairly apparent that they would take just about any warm body, including a goofy kid like me. My parents could neither afford, nor did they trust such an organization so my modeling career never took off.

Sixth grade was pivotal for another reason—cheerleading. I was reasonably popular in sixth grade. I got along well with most of the girls in my grade and aside from some academic issues, things were going along swimmingly. At the end of the school year were try outs for 7th grade cheerleading. Every one of us was excited, especially me. I grew up attending high school football games and some of my first “role models” were high school cheerleaders. I had always wanted to cheer. My pals and I were a flurry of activity practicing cheers in all of our free time during the weeks leading up to try outs. Then, the unthinkable happened, I didn’t make the squad. It hurt, but it wasn’t until the following year that the full impact sunk in. I was no longer popular. I was lost. In time those girls became the pretty girls and in time I accepted my fate, I was not a pretty girl.

As I grew older and wiser I developed very sophisticated feminist opinions about all of that. I would much prefer to be recognized for my intelligence and talent. Pretty was for girls who had nothing else going for them. I wore little or no makeup, my clothes were tasteful and professional, well tailored, but never drew attention to me or my body. On a date I went to great pains to give the impression that I hadn’t put any special energy into my appearance beforehand. I wanted to be liked for who I was, not what I looked like. I had a very sophisticated system in place to NOT be pretty. In fact, I probably put as much time, thought and energy into not being pretty as most people invest in being pretty.

Life has a funny way of bringing it all full circle though. My career took off on a tangent that I never expected. After investing time, energy and education in establishing a meaningful career in the nonprofit world, the economy and my life took a huge hit. I found myself floundering and unemployed. I sold furniture for a while, then lingerie and now cosmetics. Cosmetics!? It’s almost comical to those who know me. I pursued the job because there was more money in makeup than bras. It was a pragmatic choice, and I was going to sell fragrance anyway, which clearly is different……..

The job requires that I wear makeup to work every day. At first that seemed like a time consuming extra step to add to my day, but eventually I got used to it. In fact I’ve learned a great deal about makeup, how to wear it, and what products are great and so on. Secretly I started liking makeup a bit. Then one day my fellow “beauty advisors” and I were standing around talking about an open position in our department and one lady commented about an elderly woman who works in another department and had applied for the job. It was comical to everyone that she would even apply; she didn’t fit the image at all. It was at that moment that I realized I had become one of them. I was a pretty girl.

This really sent my little psyche into a tailspin. What had I done? I had become what I reviled. And yet I wasn’t either. I’m smart and capable. What am I doing here? I became increasingly ashamed of what I had become. When people asked me what I did for a living I felt like I was apologizing for myself when I told them that I sold cosmetics. Then I had an unusual interaction with a customer that began to shift my thinking. This woman came in to pick up her usual mascara and I chatted with her and succeeded at getting her to add three more products to her purchase with very little effort on my part. As I was collecting her credit card she commented on my height and asked if I had ever played basketball. I told her that I get asked that all the time, but no I was never coordinated enough. I’ve always preferred running, biking, and hiking over team sports. Her reply was amusing to say the least, “Well, you’re pretty; I guess you don’t have to be good at anything.” She collected her things and walked away. Now I’m sure she meant any sports, not ANYTHING, but even so, she expressed a sentiment I once held. And of course it is untrue; I’m good at all sorts of things, including sales. So good in fact that even though she dismissed me as just another pretty face, I had just sold her $60 worth of things she didn’t plan to buy, and she wasn’t even fully aware of what I had just done. And so I learned a very valuable lesson. There is in fact an amazing power, strength and intelligence in being pretty and maybe that is something worth embracing. Maybe it’s okay to be a pretty girl after all.