Thoughts on Prettiness
Seeing a pretty person is like finding a pretty shell on the beach.
Some people think that all shells are pretty. Some people don’t. There are certain shells that a majority of people agree are pretty, and those types of shells get sold at gift shops. You might find a shell that you think is pretty, even if no one who runs a gift shop agreed with you. Some people are compelled to take pretty shells home and either display them on shelves, make them into jewelry, or just forget about them and let them fall under the car seat. Some people enjoy the pretty shells but leave them on the beach. Some people don’t notice shells at all.
The thing is, shells don’t have psyches that react to people’s opinions of their prettiness. (Or maybe they do. I have no way of knowing for certain, do I?)
Logically, I know that people have no control over the faces they’re born with. Therefore, logically, it makes no sense to praise or castigate people for the way their faces look. And yet, I like to look at pretty shells. Sometimes, I’m compelled to take them home.
I used to think that everyone treated pretty people better than they treated everyone else. Then, over time, I came to believe that pretty women only got treated well when they made themselves accessible – when they showed a certain amount of modesty and grateful appreciation for the attention they were shown.
Now I think that people react to prettiness in countless ways, and pretty people react to those reactions in countless ways, too. Prettiness is a power, but not always useful to its bearer, I think.
I used to think that I was a good person because I tried really hard never to hate on people for not being born pretty. Now I wonder if that’s enough.
I like it when people tell me they think I’m pretty – sometimes. I hate it when strangers indicate that I’m pretty enough for them to want to sleep with me. Between those two points, there’s a big gray area. Is it okay for women to compliment me, but not men? Are offensive personal remarks unoffensive if the intent seems benign? Do I let people get away with saying more to me if I think they’re pretty? It almost doesn’t matter how I feel about it. I can ask people not to speak to me in a certain way, but I can’t control their reactions to the way I look, spoken or not.
There’s a woman in my office building complex who I find very, very pretty. It’s not even her face as much as the way she arranges every physical thing on her person. Her makeup is invisibly flawless. Her hair manages to look runway fabulous but still professional. Her clothes – her clothes are absolutely sublime. Every time I’ve ever seen her, her outfit has been the most artful blend of fashion and good taste I can imagine.
For all I know, she’s the biggest bitch in the world. She could kill and eat babies for breakfast. She could hate the world.
But I like to look at her. This morning, I felt a really strong desire to interrupt her fierce parking garage stomp, look her in the eyes, and tell her, “Did you know that you are the best dressed person in this whole building? Did you? If you don’t know that, you should.”
Why? What is my motivation for wanting to tell her – is my approbation some kind of prize that she should be grateful to receive? Am I any better than a man catcalling her on the street?
I wish I could enjoy looking at people like I look at flowers or shells on the beach – silently. For the most part, I do.
If ugly words could hurt flowers’ feelings and make them stop blooming, would I say nice words in the hopes of getting them to bloom again? Selfishly, I would. If flowers could hear me, would they need me to point out their power?
