You’d look so much prettier if…
A brief reflection on purity culture and unhinged beauty standards.
This post popped up in my Instagram feed recently. It made me laugh. And then it got me thinking. (AKA it drudged up some light religious trauma.)
A few years ago, I read a book written by my then-pastor’s wife. In one chapter, she talked extensively about the lines between her eyebrows. She’d come to the conclusion that these frown lines made her look continuously grumpy — or worse, angry. The moral of the story was that this was unattractive and unbecoming of a woman of God, and she needed to be a better wife and mother (i.e. never, ever get cranky or frustrated with her husband or children) in order to erase those lines1. The implication was that every woman who read her book should do the same.
I spent weeks afterward feeling incredibly self-conscious about my own face. I’d look in the mirror after I stepped out of the shower, rubbing my fingers against my forehead as I applied my daily BB cream, as if I could magically erase the wrinkles. At various moments throughout my day, I’d become hyper aware of my facial expressions, work to relax my forehead, and chide myself for potentially making those lines go deeper.
Until one day, my husband took a silly photo of me at work, staring at my computer screen, and I realized something.
Those lines between my eyebrows weren’t there because I was constantly crabby and frowning at the people around me. They were there because of my concentration face.
Whenever I’m deep in thought, my face likes to settle into an intense stare, my eyes focused on whatever is in front of me, my brows drawn together. And as a creative person, I make this face a lot.
I thought about all that time I’d wasted feeling less than, and less beautiful, all because of two silly lines on my face. And then I did get mad.
Those lines between my brows should have been a celebration of my creativity and thoughtful mind. Instead, they’d been used to critique my character and my womanhood.
I don’t say this to shame the woman who wrote this book. She’s as much a victim of unhinged beauty standards as I am.2 I’m sad for all of us…me, her, every girl born into purity culture, every woman who’s dated or walked past a misogynistic asshole one time and ever since has been looking in the mirror and forcing her face to be softer, kinder, less noticeable or more approachable, and above all, less angry. Making sure cleavage and shoulders and ass are covered, but, if you’re married, you’re still sexy enough for your husband to say, “Hey, look at my smokin’ hot wife” but not so sexy that other men look at you and say, “Hey, look at his smokin’ hot wife.” Or, if you’re single, feminine and pretty enough to catch yourself a man, but not so feminine and pretty that that man remembers you have boobs and a vagina and can no longer control his urges.
Whether it’s religion or society (or a horrible mix of both) telling us how we should look and act as women, it’s all bullshit.
I spent the majority of my life (and my entire childhood and teen years) listening to church leaders tell me that I needed to police my body in various ways. Never for the benefit of me, of course, but for the benefit of my future husband. (And the pious Christian men around me whose weak constitutions were so easily tempted.)
I have a lot more thoughts about purity culture, and how America in particular is so afraid of naked bodies, and maybe I’ll write about it sometime.
But for now, I’ll just say that for the last couple of years I’ve been working hard to undo a lot of the shame and fear I was taught to carry in my body. From embracing the inevitability of wrinkles, to buying clothes I like and feel good in without worrying about how big my stomach looks or how much of my skin is showing, to watching things like Naked Attraction and 100 Vaginas3 and celebrating how beautiful the human body is and how unique — and yet, similar — we all are. It’s been an incredibly freeing process. (Also a difficult one full of ups and downs, as these things usually are.)
In my corner of the world, spring is just around the corner and with it will come the pressure to shed a few pounds as we shed our winter layers. Some of us may be tempted to look at the bikini in the back of our closet and then look at our stomach and then think about the few pounds we’ve put on and then feel guilty for that donut or not exercising more. And then, once we exorcise that shame and remember that our body is the perfect size and shape to wear whatever the hell we want, we’ll have to remind ourselves that how people perceive and react to that body is their problem, not ours.4 (I say all this from experience.)
I also say it’s time to set the phrases “beach body,” “aging gracefully,” and “stumbling block” on fire and watch them burn.
I say it’s time to celebrate every line — laugh lines, frown lines, WTF lines. Every stretch mark and every scar. Be angry. Only smile if you want to. Dress for no one but you. Be your fucking self.
We don’t need to meet any standard to be beautiful or good or valuable. We already are.
🎧 As Good a Reason by Paris Paloma. Pay attention to the lyrics and you’ll understand why.
📼 Great movies. Some recent favorites across a (very) broad spectrum of genres: Everything Everywhere All at Once, A Good Person, Next Goal Wins, X, The Handmaiden, Poor Things, and Past Lives.
🎤 Hannah Gadsby’s Gender Agenda comedy special featuring several trans and non-binary comics. Much laughter and queer joy ensues.
📚 In my last post, I highlighted Mister Magic as one of my favorite reads so far this year, so much so that I immediately snagged one of Kiersten White’s other books, Hide, from the library. While Mister Magic leans more psychological thriller, Hide is classic horror combined with White’s not-so-subtle take on the trauma caused by religious folks who will do anything (and sacrifice anyone) to cling to power and privilege.
👏 @professor_neil and his thoughtful, thorough takedowns of the internet’s rampant misinformation and misogynistic takes.
Laugh lines are, of course, fine because some wrinkles are the mark of a life well lived. Joy of the Lord and all that. Much like gray hair being “a crown of splendor” (see Proverbs 16:31). Hip evangelicals must appear to be a little bit feminist, to make it clear they don’t ascribe to that whole “women must be silent in the church” version of Christianity and that they’re totally allowed to preach.*
*On Mother’s Day, during the annual marriage sermon series, and when they’re promoting their latest book.
And every other standard women are held to; see also America Ferrera’s Barbie monologue.
The UK’s naked dating show and a documentary about one woman’s photography project that explores participant’s relationships with their vulvas. As one article describes the latter, “When 100 women share intimate photos and deeply personal experiences relating to their vaginas, the result is a tender yet taboo-exploding message of women reclaiming their womanhood.”
See also Billie Eilish’s Not My Responsibility.
Your article brought me joy!! 🔥🔥🔥I am from Helena, we have met, my book club wants you to visit us when you are in Helena!