I prayed my daughter would be beautiful. I actually asked the universe to give her blonde hair, blue or green eyes, a great smile, and a cute little nose. I used to rub my belly and “chant” Charlize Theron.
I grew up in Northern California, in a sea of gorgeous blondes. All-American golden beauties were my nightmare and best friends. I’m first generation American, born to European mutts from Paris. Somehow my brother managed to pull all the refined genes from our pool; while I inherited all of the strong, angular features. As a tall, dark haired girl with broad shoulders, I stuck out in group photos. I was regularly cast as the evil villain in school plays, teased for looking Jewish, told I was too ugly to come to school, and barked at in the hallways throughout middle and high school. Teenagers can be cruel, and it didn’t help that to be beautiful in the 90s, you had to be “perfect.” Everyone on TV was perfect. Models were perfect. My best friend was (is) PERFECT. Perfect button nose – perfectly plump lips – perfect willowy shape – perfect long blonde hair.
After high school, I tried everything to appear beautiful. I died my hair blonde, and wore loads of pink. I learned how to apply just the right shade of self-tanner, slimmed down to a size 4, and wore what the Mac sales associate described as “porn star gloss.” I pretended the old, ugly version of me never existed.
It wasn’t until a few years later, when I moved to New York, that I finally felt beautiful. New Yorkers are beautiful. Every neighborhood is different, and I seemed to finally “fit in.”
I always knew I’d have two children – a girl first, and then a boy – so it came as no surprise when my doctor told us we were having a little girl. What did surprise me was how much hearing the news triggered all of my insecurities from the past. During the car ride home from the appointment, I grabbed my husband’s hand and said, “You’re going to be such a great dad. I hope she is healthy and strong and a total pain in the ass just like you.” He smiled and said, “I hope she is brave and funny, and looks just like you.” I was shocked at how angry that made me. I snapped back “No. Not like me. God please, don’t let her look like me.”
I got my wish. My daughter is healthy and smart, funny and kind, and a very strong–willed pain in the ass. I love every inch of her. She looks nothing like me. She is lean and petite, with golden blonde hair and the most stunning blue eyes. People stop us on the street regularly to tell me how pretty she is.
At some point I started to feel guilty for caring about how my daughter might look, and talked through some of the feelings with my old best blonde girlfriends. One of them confessed she never knew how beautiful she was and actually referred to herself as “the ugly one” in our high school group of friends. Another told me she always felt pressured to be “perfect in every way,” because people were constantly telling her how perfect she was. She drove herself insane trying to be perfect as to not disappoint anyone. I was completely shocked to learn my beautiful friends were just as insecure as I was.
It’s going to be interesting raising a “pretty girl”. I’m going to have to watch someone I love more than myself, deal with insecurities, self-image and heartbreak. I believe she is the most beautiful person on the planet, inside and out, and will do my best to express that. She will most likely believe, as I did, that mothers are obligated to say things like that to their daughters. I never believed my mother.
I hope my daughter will see the beauty in others and never feel the need to compare herself. I hope she will speak up when people make comments about her (or others) based only on appearance, because as I’ve realized pretty girls don’t need that shit either. I’ve read articles about why it’s important for moms not to focus on their daughters’ looks, which I don’t; and praise them for their intelligence, humor, style, and creativity, which I do, but I still tell her she’s beautiful everyday. I want her to know and feel it.
After spending so much time and energy wishing for my daughter to be outwardly beautiful, I now know that true beauty involves so much more than just being pretty. And I know now that even if she looked exactly like me, she would still be beautiful.