Beauty, within and without

Today being one of those days when you feel like you could do with an extra hand or two to lift your spirits up, I decided to check if an old pick-me-up habit still worked - post a selfie on Instagram, harvest a handful of social validation, and feed myself an instant (albeit transient) meal of self-confidence.

I picked two of my recent favourites from my album - taken a few months ago in my old Chennai room, with nothing else but a generous dab of red lipstick on my face. It was me - in my natural, just-a-wee-bit-of-extra-effort habitat.

I paired the photos with a witty, deceptively humble description, and hit Publish.

Not so bad a move, right? I mean, what could possibly go wrong in this seemingly harmless and common cheer-up strategy that has had a pretty good track record with satisfactory results for me and my friends in the past?

What I didn’t see coming, was that it would bring the exact opposite outcome this time.

Within the first few minutes, likes began streaming down my notifications bar, and I slowly started dipping my feet into the familiar external validation pool. The first three comments were as expected - kiss emojis, hearts... Keep them coming, my social support group, I smiled.

And then, by around the fourth minute of publishing the post, one particular comment popped up - from an “Advanced Aesthetic Practitioner” friend from school.

I don’t remember the comment verbatim (you’ll know why in a bit), but it was along the lines of:

“As an Aesthetician, the first thing that pops up in my head is, you need Botox! Haha. Well, I’ll stfu, you pretty thing!”

It took me exactly three minutes to summon a mental breakdown, delete the post without a second thought, and shut myself in my bedroom to bawl my eyes out for a good half an hour.

After managing to soothe my seething self and settle my troubled waters, I finally reached the self-introspection station.

“What just happened?”

“Why did that comment trigger me so much?”

She was just speaking from her professional perspective, with little to no intention to personally attack me. And yet, I felt like she’d attacked my entire being, down to my very core.

And then it hit me.

It was my own insecurity, with how I looked and how I felt about how I looked, that was the real villain.

How I was looking my actual age, to be precise. Had I been secure about my changing looks and more importantly, loved the process, and every wrinkle, dark spot, and freckle that came with it, her comment wouldn’t have made the slightest impact on my psyche.

I’d have responded with a “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m afraid I love how I look a bit too much to change absolutely anything,” and would’ve minded the rest of my day with peace and perkiness.

I’d have looked straight through the societal conditioning of how it’s somehow unacceptable to look our age, and acknowledged how fundamentally flawed that perspective is, and how I’m done falling prey to such misinformed and unnatural notions.

I’d have stood my ground, held my head up high, and proclaimed how proud I am of myself to have been aging so gracefully and organically. And that I couldn’t wait to witness all the gorgeous changes my maturing body has in store for the coming years. How I’ll celebrate every single progress in my physique, just like how I used to celebrate every inch I’d grown in height during my high school years. Or how I got excited with every centimeter my hair grew, after I outgrew the short-lived love for an impulsive short haircut. Or how I cherished every curve that sculpted it’s way along my body when I was transforming from a girl to a woman.

I’d have treasured my beauty, within and without, so much, that I’d naturally begin treasuring the beauty of everyone else around - the unique beauty that only they, their maturity, and their life journey could create and showcase.

And I suggest you do the same, you uniquely beautiful you.