The Irony of Beauty

i. A Craving for Validation

She is seven years old, the first time she is called beautiful. Her skin brown, her hair rippling waves of brunette, her smile as wide and as captivating as the Universe itself. It is a friend of her father who says this to her. With a smile on his face; seated on her living room sofa; sharing a beer with the man who birthed her into this world.

'Diego,' he says, as the small girl walks quietly into the room with snacks prepared by her mother, for the pair that fill the living room couch. 'How is your daughter so beautiful, when you have a face like that?'

Though she is a child, and this statement is meant more to be an insult to her father than a compliment to her, she cannot help but absorb it. Breathe it in as if it were oxygen.

This is how it begins. This craving for validation.

The word, beautiful, a bittersweet honey that her tongue cannot help but crave. A lie the girl tries, but cannot force herself, to believe. Even as small as she is.

ii. The Almighty Paradox

She is thirteen years old, the first time she is kissed. By a boy named Dante. His skin a lighter shade of brown than the girl; his eyes an earthy hazel. He is tall, and muscular, and has a jawline that could break hearts. The most desired boy in their high school.

The boy, in their high school, who desires her most.

Yet still, as the two of them walk home together from school - quiet and awkwardly close - she does not feel herself wanting to be desired by him. A boy who has called her beautiful more times than he has called her name.

This is the predicament of her life. The almighty paradox of her existence.

She craves to be told that she is beautiful, to be desired for that very reason. However, when she is, she cannot help but feel empty. As if the only value she has in the world is an exterior everyone but her wants to look at.

The world grows quieter around the youths. An evening haze looming in the sky above. Autumn will be here soon.

Dante stops. Looks up at the darkening sky. Says, 'It's so beautiful.'

The girl stops. Does the same. Yes, she thinks.

Dante turns to look at her, brushing his silk soft hand against her cheek. 'Just like you.'

The girl looks back at him. Her mind drowning in the truth. No, she thinks.

Then his lips press to hers and he is kissing her. She doesn't kiss him back. Neither does she pull away. After all, there is a bittersweet honey on the boy's tongue the girl cannot help but crave so deeply it hurts.

iii. A Burden of a Gift

She is fifteen years old, the first time her mother signs her up for a beauty pageant. A competition where she must be best at flaunting a beauty she does not believe in. This, all so she can win a cash prize.

Her entire family is seated around the dining table, eating breakfast - when this is proposed. Just before the girl is meant to leave for school.

She does not want to do it.

Especially when she is so uncomfortable in her own skin. Regardless, of being told so many times that this skin - this body, she wears is a gift rather than a burden.

She agrees, anyway. Her family needs the money.

The competition arrives three weeks after the conversation about it. It is brutal and gorgeous and everything wrong with the world. Each girl either perfect or desperate or sad. Not that there is really much difference between the three.

As anyone could have predicted, the girl wins. Awarded the title of most beautiful amid a huddled mass of enviable youth.

She stands on stage with roses and a crown, the audience a raucous orchestra of applause and cheers.

The girl should feel thankful. Should feel proud. She has won, after all.

She doesn't feel that way though. All she feels is an emptiness buried deep down inside, as she smiles at the crowd before her.

iv. Beauty

She is seventeen years old, the first time she is asked to participate in an act unrelated to her beauty. A marathon run, to raise money for breast cancer.

It is a girl from school who approaches her on the matter. Her skin brown, her hair cornrow braids, her frame grace and aggression.

'You're mum died from breast cancer didn't she?' the black girl says, to the girl as she pushes maths books into her locker.

She pauses at the mention of her dead mother. Shuts her locker. Looks up at the black girl.

'Yes,' she says.

The black girl nods. Hands her a leaflet, that details how to participate in the school's marathon to raise money for those with breast cancer. Walks away.

The moment she gets home the girl starts training, but tells no one about it.

She once made the mistake of working hard on something other than her looks. A boy told her she shouldn't try so hard. Pretty girls didn't need to try so hard.

When the day of the marathon finally arrives, the girl walks out onto the school field where crowds of girls and women have already gathered around the starting line, all of them absorbed in endless conversation. The girl joins them, silent all the while.

Minutes pass. The start gun sounds. They run.

The girl is a poem of ache and pain and happiness when she finally crosses the finish line.

It is there, the same black girl who invited her here, approaches her, her face painted with congradulations. 'You did good,' she says.

The girl smiles.

Realising, in this moment, as she is covered in sweat and dirt and pride, she has never felt more beautiful.