We are beautiful

by Patti

S was born with a shock of thick, black curly hair.  Her father has black curly hair, and when S was swimming around in utero, I imagined her looking just like him. When S was emerging from the inside world to the outside world, casually hanging out in limbo there between my sprawled out legs, my midwife announced it, "Oh, look! Black curly hair!"  "Just like I pictured..." I thought.

That black curly hair soon transformed into a glorious head of golden curls. By the time S was 3 years old, her hair was so thick, curly and long, it appeared she was wearing a wig. It was odd to see her tiny body crowned with Charro's hair. But there she was, all attitude and curls, and it honestly was not unusual for random strangers to comment on the beauty of it.

S is eleven now, and she hates her hair. "I just wish it was STRAIGHT!" she often laments. For Christmas, she asked for a flat iron. "It's not fair - I'll never be able to have bangs!" she sighs. Her hair's curl has tamed a bit; it is now more thick waves. But the second the weather turns "sticky", or the sun hits that head, her face is instantly framed by tight little curls that have her sobbing into her hands that she looks like a poodle.

I marvel at her discontent. No doubt about it - and I don't just say this because she is my kid - she has gorgeous hair. And I just can't understand how she doesn't see that. And then it hits me: Are we simply hardwired to hate ourselves?

I mean, think about it: What feature of yours did you curse this morning in the mirror? Was it your hips? The slight curve of your nose? Was it the fact that your top lip is thinner than your bottom lip? Was it that your straight hair can't hold a curl? Was it your curly hair that you longed to see sleek and shiny?

I know I've done it. In front of my daughter, even. And what kind of message does that send to her when I am criticizing the very body that brought her into this world?

S is at the threshold of womanhood now. The songs of woe I sing about the little roll of fat around my waist, the hair that won't lay just right, the sheen on my skin that powder won't mute -- they need to be sung very carefully. In fact, I may just have to change my tune altogether. Because S is beautiful, and if I don't believe that I am beautiful, she will never believe she is, either.