“Pretty is as pretty does.”

We’ve heard it all our lives. But do you know what it truly means? It means that you can be a bombshell, but if you’ve got a wicked heart, you’re ugly as a blob fish. {I was going to conveniently supply you with a photo of one here, but I shan’t do you that way. To be fair, they’re only ugly once they’re hauled to the surface of water. They’re not so bad in their home depth. May this serve as a lesson to us all}.

I was having a conversation with my friend the other night over supper and she said offhandedly, “She’s pretty.” I don’t remember who we were even talking about, but I agreed. Kay is one of those sweet people who can find beautiful things in everyone. I can see beauty in lots of things, normal things, like sunrises over the ocean and daffodils dripping with dew and Persian cats. I can see it in manmade things, too: Greek Revival houses and certain sports cars and the way candlelight glimmers in chandeliers. Sure. I don’t always see beauty in people. I can tell when women of a certain age were a knockout in their day, mainly because they’re still paying attention to their figure and appearance. They’ll still be keeping up with frosting their hair, and usually they have those deep set eyes that are always the envy of the pig-eyed among us (talking about myself, here). I’ve never been alluring a day in my life. The best I’ve ever hoped for was simply “cute”. I voiced this opinion and Kay immediately scolded me. “You’re pretty!” She chastened.

I shrugged and took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Thank you, but I just don’t see it. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I’m ugly, but I’ve never thought of myself as pretty. My mother was a beautiful woman, and people say I look like her, but I think I favor my dad.”

“What does your mother look like?”

“An Indian. I don’t look anything like her, apart from maybe just my build and possibly face structure. She has long, straight, dark brown hair, brown eyes, and tans like a nut. My dad had blue eyes, light brown curly hair, and burned like a lobster.”

“You take after your dad, then.” It was decided.

“Yup, personality, too. He was pretty goofy, didn’t take many things too seriously. Always lookin’ for a reason to go fishin’…or drink beer.” I looked forlornly at my empty glass.

Kay giggled. “So if you don’t think you’re pretty, what’s your definition of pretty, then?”

I’ve thought about this a lot, actually, especially when I dwell on the specific parts of me that make me decidedly not pretty: my fat legs, my poor vision and inability to wear contacts, therefore being saddled with thick corrective lenses. My less than dazzling white teeth, although as I age they seem to be getting better instead of worse, so at least there’s that. I’ve made peace with my hair, at last. And it’s funny, I don’t really care about being pretty. It’s astonishing how little time I spend in front of a mirror getting ready, and how I rarely look at one all day. Even when washing my hands I don’t really look. I’m often surprised to find how my mascara has smudged under my eyes or food spilled on my shirt or buttons done up wrong or not at all. Most of you know I was a pageant princess until I was about ten or so. Maybe it burned me out on all that primping. I don’t hate it, I just ain’t doin’ it. I like to get fancy every now and then, but for special occasions, not on the regular. But my view of myself is reinforced by the lack of men who approach. I’ve been told I’m “intimidating as hell, it’s got nothing to do with your looks” and John Alan once said that it’s more to do with my personality and the way I carry myself. Evidently even the way I walk is projecting a “speak at your own risk” vibe.

But back to my definition of pretty.

“Well, it’s funny. I worked with a girl who was textbook pretty. I thought so, anyway. She was slim, but not skinny. Long, straight blonde hair that didn’t take any effort at all, it just hung like a curtain. When she curled it, it would hold. Very symmetrical features, blue eyes and thick, long eyelashes. Patrician nose and clear skin. Long legs. But I tell you, her beauty was truly only skin deep. She was the worst.”

Kay nodded thoughtfully. “So the Barbie doll type, then.”

“I guess.” I mean, obviously I think other types of women are pretty. I’ve never seen an ugly Miss Universe. But that’s just what my brain flashes when someone says “she’s pretty.”

But in order to be pretty in this day and age, it seems you’ve really got to work at it. Especially if you’re over 30. The amount of maintenance that most women are taking part in is staggering. I’ve written about it before, but to recap, let’s say:

• Hair- cut and color, occasional blowout to keep it luscious with keratin treatments
• If that isn’t enough, hair extensions
• Nails (mani and pedi)
• Fake lashes
• Brows (threading? I think that’s what it’s called)
• Lip plumping
• Botox around lips and in forehead
• Waxing….everything
• Permanent tattooed makeup
• Micro blading? Dermablading? I don’t even know.
• Facials
• Various plastic surgeries
• Veneers for teeth or minimally, whitening procedures
• Then you gotta have the right clothes, shoes, bag
• Oh and regular makeup which seems to get very involved from the few videos I’ve watched with contouring
• Spray tanning

That’s just what I’ve heard of. No doubt there’s tons more. Plus gym memberships and massages and eating all the kale and meal replacement shakes or whatever the trend is now. Listen. Gimme a club sandwich, a pickle, some chips, a Mountain Dew, and a slice of Village Bakery cake and take me to the bookstore and I’m having a good day. Who wants to spend all that time in a salon, anyway? It smells like chemicals. I want to spend my time elsewhere. Like at home, with my dog, reading a book or writing about the stars. If I could choose to be resilient or pretty, or capricious or pretty, or clever or pretty, or empathetic or pretty, or fearless or pretty…I would be anything but pretty. Beauty fades. A sharp tongue isn’t pretty, either, but at least it took effort to think up something biting.

Now, don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with looking your best. Just make sure you’ve still got a brain in your head and your priorities straight after you get pumped full of poison. If it’s important to you and it helps with your confidence, by all means, onward. But evaluate your heart. Feed your soul. Walk barefoot every now and then and have some pizza and a coke.

For your listening pleasure, my anthem:

https://youtu.be/sEVX_FrgGWU?si=SxQlJ2eIc5fFKUyu

And some wise words from the Pistol Annies:

The red on my nails keeps chipping off
The pink on my lips just adds to the flaws
I ain’t good at fake lashes
Every time I wear high heels I fall

Being pretty ain’t pretty, it takes all day long
You spend all your money just to wipe it all off
You spray on your perfume, you spray on your tan
Get up in the morning, do it over again
Being pretty ain’t pretty at all

So even though it’s an exceedingly kind thing to say that someone is pretty, I hope they have something else to offer the world. Because to me, pretty just don’t cut it.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy