Feminists Don’t Bake Bread

Beauty is a weird thing. And a contentious subject. Look at the whole size zero thing that’s currently rampaging through the papers. Beauty is, and always has been, something important and long debated. It’s a fact of life that you can go far with a pretty face or a good figure.

I missed all those girl traits – I actually don’t have that bad a body image. I’m no looker (It has been claimed I’m beautiful, I’m sure that’s a matter of perspective…) but I’m not about to through myself into the land of plastic surgery or anything like that. I am me. The universe made me the way I am. I learned this looking at a photo of my great great great grandmother. I have her eyes. Her eyebrows. The resemblance is strong enough, that you’d think we were sisters. I look a little like my mum. A hint of my granny. My face carries history – mine and my family’s. It’s an odd mix of genetics (you can see the little pieces of where I’ve come from) and history. There’s a reason why I have such a badly broken nose or the scar on my eye. As I get older, I’ll get lines and creases. Little markers of the life I have lived. And that doesn’t bother me.

I know that I’ll never be universally beautiful. And I’ll not be one of those women who resorts to plastic surgery (I have contemplated getting my nose fixed, but that’s only cause it would possibly cure my migraines) and ends up looking like a cat who’s been sat next to a firework that’s just gone off – all huge eyes and startled expression. I’ll continue to be me, but me marked and stained by time.

This is how I currently see myself:

I’m short. But I kinda like being short. I tend to like my guys taller that me, so this is a bonus! Plus, I’m the same height as Wolverine is in the comics…

I’m podgy. I’m a size 14/16, which is positively awful to the fashion world. I have a little podgy belly, chubby cheeks and a comfy sized arse. I could stand to lose probably about 2 stone. But to be horrendously honest, I don’t care. I like the way I am. I go out at the chest (lots), in at the waist (a bit) and out at the hips. I could starve myself forever and I’d never be thin. I have, as they have been called, wide, childbearing hips. I have a solid bone structure. I’m a Pict – short and dark and broad.

My face is…well…me. I’ve been told that my best feature is my eyes and I tend to agree. Huge, dark, expressive. I have a crooked nose. I have those little quirks that only those who know me exceptionally well ever pick up on – the dimples in my ears, the mole on my lower lip. I get dimples in my cheeks when I properly smile.

All this, it’s part of me. And, yeah, maybe I would be more conventionally beautiful if I had implants and tucks and laser procedures. But I think I’d lose part of my individuality. I’d be sacrificing myself in the pursuit of something else. Someone else.

Men and women (mostly women, but no one’s safe from a little vanity) spend a ridiculous amount of money trying to become more perfect. More beautiful. And yes…some people are universally beautiful. Some people will turn heads wherever they go. Good luck to them. Genetics and lifestyle clicked together and everyone sees how beautiful they are. But some people are only beautiful to those who love them. My granny told me this. If you love someone who is universally beautiful, they are beautiful to you because you see the flaws. You know the dimples and moles and little imperfections that make up who they are. And that’s the beautiful part – you know the secret of their flaws. And if you love someone who isn’t beautiful, they become beautiful because their features become precious. You’ve kissed and held and gazed at their face, and you can see the beauty that everyone else missed. And again that’s part of the beauty – you know the secret, that they are truly beautiful.

Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so much time working on what’s inside me. I worry about the flaws in my personality and in my soul, rather than the thickness of my waist or the shininess of my hair. I understand the need to look good – of course I do. But it’s not everything. And sometimes, in our pursuit of perfection, we miss the beauty that’s already there.

The fashion world can rage as it will. It can tell me that unless I’m 5ft 10ins, 7 stone, leggy, pale, and with cheekbones that you could use to cut meat, I’m not a worthwhile person. But I’m never going to believe it. And, to quote Melle, the more they go on about a size zero epitomising beauty, the more I want to eat lard to better jiggle my rolls of fat at them. It you are a size zero, be happy, be healthy, be well. But the same goes for anyone else, no matter what size or shape or colour they are. Because there is beauty there. Real beauty.

Look at my friends: Every shape and size imaginable, and something beautiful about every single one of them: Don’s gentle smile; Anna’s curvy figure; Kirsty’s cheeky grin; James’ eyes. Seriously, I could go on. My friends are people who are beautiful.

After all, I’m shallow. Aren’t we all?