Member-only story
This is Not A Story About Acne
Beauty that lies beyond the basics
I had just woken up. I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face, and couldn’t help but stare at the reflection looking back at me. She was beautiful, yes, but not without flaws. My hands reached for my face, and I started inspecting each dip, bump, pus-filled pimple, and scar. My fingers were smooth and gentle, with soft touches in a futile attempt to soothe the war that had broken out on my face. They were the mediators, but also the culprits. I clenched my fists and put them down. I had the itch to pick on a new pimple, but was staring at the reminder of what picking on the previous one had left behind. I turned my face away.
I’ve never known a time when I’ve had clear skin. I’ve never known my face without indents, scars, red, angry pimples, blackheads, skin-colored bumps, or rashes. Since I hit puberty, I’ve never fit in with the other girls.
Growing up, I’d faced many battles with beauty. When the bar is set at smooth, light skin with straight, shiny hair, it’s only natural for a somewhat chubbier girl with a round face, whose forehead and cheeks are never smooth or even toned, and who has thick, curly, and frizzy hair to fit in. I was always taller, broader, and heavier than my friends, and constantly jealous of their flawless attributes.
