On Suffering to be Beautiful

You have to suffer to be beautiful.

My mother has told me this all of my life.

It’s the reason my cervical discs are degenerated. My mother gave me whiplash every morning when she brushed my hair.

My eyes have their almond shape from hair pulled too tightly in Goodie band elastics.

Face washing was exfoliation--particularly when she used the kitchen washcloth with Comet residue.

And when she parted my hair, the strands goose-stepped to the correct side of the line like a bunch of Nazis saluting the Fuhrer. A carpenter’s level was less accurate than the line separating my pigtails.

My mother was so consumed with neatly trimmed finger and toe nails that I sought refuge with my next door neighbor Elaine Weissblum. Elaine cut my toe nails for me. I would ring her bell and she would get the baby clippers out to give me my pedicure.

My mother was not particularly gentle.

And she took her beautification job very seriously.

But my mother was preparing me for things to come-- like tweezing and waxing---and blisters and bunions from high heels. She was preparing me for 2 lb “statement necklaces,” clip earrings  and underwires and lycra. She was preparing me for tooth sensitivity to whiteners.

The pain of my childhood was just a primer for self-inflicted pain as an adult.

My mother was doing her job.

She was preparing me for all things female.

And now I can laugh about the torture. Because my mother was correct: women endure much in the name of beauty---it is unavoidable. Glamour is costly: physically and emotionally. 

And I learned it all from an expert.