A few years ago, I made the biggest mistake of my life. As I am now, I feel as if I have made a full recovery physically, but not mentally. It is hard for me to admit this, but not too long ago, I had a bob. A fucking bob. All the pictures of this unfortunate phase of my life have been deleted or burned, all the “friends” who encouraged the social suicide have been cut out of my life (those bitches), and my hair has since made a slow recovery.
As I am now, the blonde hair I adore reaches my belly button. Its texture is a soft wave, like that of a girl who has spent her day at the beach and gently brushed out the salt-soaked curls. It is the epitome of “mermaid” hair, which is all I’ve dreamed of since I was practically bald. But now that I have reached my goal, I am still left with one haunting question: “why am I still so fucking ugly?”
What now seems like blissful ignorance, I used to justify my unfortunate looks and lack of male attention on my hairstyle. I would tell myself that it didn’t matter that my body resembled more of a lopsided plank than a Jenner, because once my hair was long, I would be a goddess. My subpar personality would somehow skyrocket to A1 once my hair could flow in the wind like that of a Disney princess. And my face? Well, to put it bluntly, my face could be covered by my long hair.
But now I’m out of excuses. Growing out my hair was supposed to be my saving grace. In my mind, it was the ultimate road to beautification. Sure, I could learn how to apply makeup without looking like a walk of shame before I even started my night, but that requires effort. I could improve my skinny fat body, but, like, exercise. Miss me with that bullshit. But to grow out hair? There was literally nothing I had to do on my end but wait it out. Do you know what I can do while growing out my hair? Watch Netflix and plan for my future as a pretty girl.
Nothing in life could have prepared me for the realization that long hair does not act as an invisibility cloak for ugliness. Having to question “is it me?” hit me like a fucking train. Because, yes. It is me. It is me and my face.
As I wallow in self-pity, I can’t help but wonder why no one warned me that long hair simply wouldn’t be enough. Were the friends who had been made aware of my plan laughing to themselves, waiting for the day my hopes and dreams crumble? I had been looking forward for years to post a glow up picture. One of those “careful who you call ugly in middle school!” side-by-sides. But they shouldn’t be careful who they called ugly in middle school, because I’m still ugly. For some of us, the glow up never came.
I’ve picked up the pieces of my heart and I’m finding the will to start believing once again that there might be a chance for me yet. My “Get Pretty Quick!” schemes range from voodoo, to breast implants, to hypnosis. I do believe I can someday resemble the adorable little girl my parents used to like taking pictures of. You know, before they started telling me that the camera was broken to save me the embarrassment of my captured reflection. Again, I absolutely refuse to take up exercise. I would rather die ugly than live a life on a treadmill. But even though I stand by my priorities, I hope you all join me on this journey. Together, we can make Blondie beautiful again..