in defense of vain women.

i have always loved beautiful things. growing up, my bedside table resembled the shelves of an eclectic antique shop; gold watches three sizes to big with pearl faces sat beside little handheld mirrors, false shining crystals and hardcover novels written in russian, french, spanish i pestered my mother to buy me simply because their covers were a pleasure to look at.  

pleasure. how i've chased it, pausing in the mood for love almost every other frame so that i could soak up all that ambered, romantic cinematography (i thank god for your existence every day christopher doyle). i will watch gorgeous films over and over even when i hate their dialogue (if you see me log an emerald fennell film then you know what i’m on) my two star review of them on letterboxd  doing very little to detract from the pleasure pretty framing and inspired lighting gives me.

as a writer, i spend so much time extracting something deeper, more hidden in the art we see around us. it is then a lovely change of pace to indulge and view simply for the sake of viewing. i've played songs on loop for hours in anticipation of that one gorgeous little riff that's stirred something sensual in me. there are more dresses in my wardrobe than there are reasons for carrie to have broken up with big, more shoes than possible occasions to wear them. i would rather lose the book I'm reading than my lip liner (practically sacrilegious coming from a former english lit uni student but is this not mean to be the app for naval gazing and solemn truths?)

i didn't feel beautiful until i turned 19. a combination of internalized colourism and the startling realization that no matter how many times my mother told me i was beautiful, there were people in the world who would simply refuse to see me that way because of my skin-tone meant there was very little self-confidence to be found in me as a teen.

the first time a boy called me pretty shocked me so much, i didn't speak to him for a week because i thought he was kidding, pulling my leg in some attempt to crack up the other boys in our year.  i don’t remember exactly when everything changed but i know it happened in tandem with me reading and educating myself on the structures that create the ‘beautiful = european’ binary. one day i was reading some toni morrison and the next, i had decided that i was beautiful.

i’ve always been a dresser- in fact, all the women in my family have always been dressers. my mother’s closet has the same chokehold on me that manny jacinto’s arms have on twitter (we love a boy of the month who has melanin and a jawline so sharp, you almost forgive him for lying to all the acolyte stans a la andrew garfield for months). the nights she’d get ready to go to a wedding felt like playing my own interactive version of the bratz dress up simulation games, watching her put on shining gold bulukati, beaded diraac, flowing hijabs with pearls sown into their hems, bedazzled clutch bags bound in our national garb- the drip was off the charts, always.

when my mum stopped picking out my outfits and let me experiment for myself, i realized i’d already inherited her love for dressing up. i started doing what she’d taught me, sourcing fabrics and taking it to the tailor to get custom abayas and skirts made, thrifting in the posh areas of our city to track down good quality shirts and men’s blazers. we connected over our love for the seemingly frivolous. once i decided that i was beautiful, i simply did not look back, combining my love for fashion with my newfound love for myself. i was a mannequin i liked having to dress, a solid foundation to experiment on.

i no longer showered in the dark, afraid of my own skin. i leaned in fully, slanting looks at myself in every mirrored surface i came across to dispel the disillusion that had robbed me of my self-esteem. every day now is an opportunity for another stellar selfie, another chance to document this blossoming love affair with myself and the way that i look. i do not push away compliments from the strangers i meet; i smile and accept them as true. if i would not say it about another woman's appearance then it is not a thought i let myself dwell on.

i sit in the salon chair as my hairdresser braids my hair now, content catching my own eye in the mirror. i tilt my head and admire the strong line of my throat, the erotic jut of my collarbone, the thick coursing hair that adorns my head falling into neat, trooping rows as she works.  

there is a societal urge to humble women, to break down our confidence and then laugh, mocking, when we put effort into how we look. they cannot stand a woman who thinks she’s beautiful because we take back our power from them. our value not lying in the approval of some smelly man who probably hasn't changed out of his boxers in a week relegates them to the sidelines.

we’ve all seen those videos of women being stopped on the street and asked to rate themselves. my repulsion at the mic’s being shoved into their faces in order to play this self-flagellating little game meant to entertain lonely, classless men is usually well-founded but occasionally, there’ll be one delightful woman who looks down the camera lens and says:

i’m a ten.

and every time, the ogre holding the mic will guffaw in protest, spluttering some version of ‘are you sure?’

nothing makes me happier than watching the light leave their eyes as they realize they’ve picked a woman who has chosen to fuck with herself unequivocally. there’s so much more joy to be found in taking pride in the way you look than wasting that energy picking your self apart. the rest of the world is eager to humble you; as woman, you do not need to do it to yourself.

we need to learn to romance ourselves. to be present in our bodies, to take note of the way your nose arches, how your elegant fingers hint at a hidden sensuality, to take your time applying your gloss. we grew up believing that to be called vain was akin to being called morally corrupt. an airhead, materialistic; the implications are dark and many but which is worse- being vain or being miserable?

you are told to care about how you look but to not be too impressed by them. be pretty so that we can appreciate it. let us view you and take you in, hungry, but don't you dare do the same .

fuck that.

i love that i'm clever, that my writing is unhinged and honest, that i can work a room. but i also love that i can see myself as one of those beautiful things i used to love collecting. that compliments do not scare me.  

i love that i know how to put together a good outfit, that a schiaparelli show can move me to tears just as easily as a re-watch of la haine will. i love seeing my girlfriends reapply their lipstick after our dinners, that they know their angles when they're taking pictures, that the urge to show off a new bag will single-handedly force them out of their house.  

the world is ugly, filled with atrocities and cruelty. ugliness is so very easy to come into contact with (have you seen the chanel’s spring/summer ready to wear collection??) so cling now to what little beauty you come into contact with. cling to yourself.

let your eyes linger on your body, across your face the way they would your lover’s. to be vain is to care, and i refuse to apologize for that.

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thank you so much for reading. i’d had another piece planned but this one felt more honest to what was on my mind this past week or so. reading your comments and seeing this little community we are building really begin to flesh itself out has been so wonderful.

feeling very grateful (being on holiday has the effect it seems) and excited.

also if there’s anything you want me to watch and write about let me know in the comments; i’m one inconvenience away from watching all the seasons of lost just to test my will to live.

look after yourselves loves and until next week,

aa xx