I am so tired of this timeline.

I am so tired of the IMPOSSIBLE and UNREALISTIC beauty standard that has been set for women.

Just this morning, a male co-worker said, “is it just me, or is Nicole Kidman looking EXTRA beautiful these days?” ⬇️

I believe my internal dialogue could be summed up by: 😐 🙄 🤬

before I angrily blurted out, “YES, SHE HAS A GREAT PLASTIC SURGEON”

The poor guy didn’t respond – which was probably wise because, at that moment, I was filled with the fire of a thousand suns.

Because I’M DONE with this.

I’m done with this:

Via The Telegraph,
https://www.telegraph.co.uk/beauty/face/why-all-celebrities-look-same/

I’m done with this:

Via The Daily Mail
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-15454655/hollywood-skinny-stars-flaunt-slim-figures-golden-globes.html

I’m done with how NORMALIZED surgeries are.

How now you’re now expected to make modifications, tweaks, tucks and it is part of self-care.

It is so normalized that MOST PEOPLE HAVE NO IDEA, they just think someone looks “extra good for their age” (btw – another co-worker also said, “oh I had no idea you coloured your hair.” MY GUY, I’m 42!! It’s not NATURAL to not have a single grey at my age!)

I’m done with homogenous beauty.
The ‘copy and paste’ face that we are starting to see on ALL celebrities now – all these once unique women assimilating into an assembly line of identical faces.

And I don’t know if it’s because it’s happening at the same time that the LOUDEST MAN in the world is making jokes about women in sports, or telling them to SMILE or “Quiet Piggy” and no one is calling it out, but NOW I can’t help but see all of this BEYOND the aesthetics:

Beauty standards that are about erasing our individuality, and ULTIMATELY our AGENCY, are inherently political.

Before you roll your eyes, hear me out.

Beauty ideals become tools that define value, and enforce power structures (like the patriarchy!). Look at what happened when Lisa LaFlamme famously “went grey” and lost her job shortly after.

Even in my own experience in Media, I have had a boss tell me that ‘it didn’t matter what the man on the show looks like, but it does matter what the woman looks like’.

Most recently, my mother worried that I would no longer be relatable to listeners if I let my greys come in, instead of continuing to dye my hair.

As though the hue of my hair carries more weight than the words that I speak.

And, by the way, I’m just speaking on this as a white woman!
I’m not even GETTING into the colonial hierarchies that have associated lighter skin with status and power throughout history.

Beauty is a LOT of things: It is biological, cultural, fun and individual! But it is also DEEPLY, deeply political.

So, where I stand now is as a 42 year old woman, in front of a mirror, who has found she cannot truly tell what she looks like.

For years, all I have been able to see is the lines on my forehead from a lifetime of expressiveness.
The excess skin I carry in my eyelid because of the hooded eyes I once loved, but now consider to be the bain of my entire face.
The lines along my too-thin lips.
The crepey, sunken skin under my eyes.
The various spots of discolouration that stay no matter how religiously I use my red light mask.

If I were to add up the cost I have spent over the last 20 years on hair colour, botox, filler, waxing, laser, quick-fix weight loss, makeup, lash extensions, lash lifts, and perms I am positive I would have a down payment on a house (“IN THIS ECONOMY?!?!” ….Yes.)

Just doing the quick mental math on my hair alone, it roughly amounts to at least $22,000 from the time I started getting it coloured “my natural shade, but better” when I was in my early twenties.

And WHY?

Because it makes me feel good?

But WHY does a hair colour – a colour that isn’t even MINE – make me feel GOOD?

I’ve talked at length with my mom about this (she and I do NOT agree – and that is okay), and she spoke about what colouring her hair has meant to her. Here’s a bit of what she had to say about sitting next to my Grandmother in the hospital, in her final days:

“when I was growing up, my friends always commented on my Mother after seeing her at church or shopping “She always looks so NICE!” I accepted those compliments as a simple statement of fact: Unlike most of my friend’s mothers, my Mom had a collection of cosmetics, dainty high-heeled shoes and pretty dresses. My Dad had a standing arrangement with a particular dress shop, who considered him their best customer and whose owner would personally let him know each season which new arrivals would be perfect for my Mom.

Mom also had a standing weekly appointment at a neighbourhood beauty salon, and the proprietor always took pride in styling my Mom’s hair, which over the years of my girlhood, ran the gamut from mid century modern bouffant, French curl updos, all the way through short blow-dry styles and perms, like a retrospective of hair styles spanning 60 years.

Not at the end, however.

Her favourite hairdresser who had become a personal friend over the decades, popped (to the hospital) to see her. Mom opened her eyes and said, “Oh, Josephine, I don’t think I feel up to getting my hair done today” Josephina, my sister and I laughed and Josephine reassured her “That’s ok, I just came to visit”. Later that week, another visitor came to the door–a tall grey-haired man wearing a black shirt and clerical collar, whom I recognized as a priest from her church who had been a long-time friend of both Mom and Dad. Mom opened her eyes WIDE, and stared at him for a minute. She then motioned for my sister to move in close to speak. “Tell me the truth” she whispered to Connie.

Dreading the question, and assuming that Mom was going to ask if the arrival of her old friend the priest meant the worst was imminent. Mom whispered to her “Are my roots really bad?” Relieved, Connie assured her “No, Mom they look fine” and then Mom relaxed. Her roots were, of course , in reality very overgrown after several weeks of being in a hospital bed. When her time came and we needed to do all those trivial but important arrangements to send her on her way with flights of angels, one detail we took pains to arrange–her dear friend Josephine provided Mom’s custom hair dye to the funeral home to make my Mom look beautiful. I always HATED when people would comment on how lovely (or poorly) a person looked in their casket–for God’s sake, how SHOULD they look? But, for once in my life, I felt comforted, knowing Mom would have approved.”

That’s when it hit me: Dying one’s hair, or altering one’s appearance, can be less about LOOKS and MORE about feelings; trying to feel how you used to feel.

When my hair is chestnut brown, I get to still live out the idea of Melody in her twenties: of being light, and young, with a world of POTENTIAL. I can’t help but wonder, under it all, does dying her hair make my mom feel as though she is embodying the values of the women before her? Getting to hold on to them (and, as a result, that part of her youth) that little bit longer?

I mean…that’s some heavy existential stuff, man.

AND SPEAKING OF MEN… y’all don’t even need to THINK of this. You get to be SILVER FOXES. You become MORE intelligent, MORE refined, MORE manly – just by friggin’ default!!

I feel I need to clarify that this isn’t about judgement on the men and women I know in the beauty industry, or on any man or woman who chooses to tweak any part of themself.

Beauty should be fun, and PERSONAL, and a reflection of who you are.

So that brings me back to where I am now: in front of that mirror, looking back at myself.

I WANT it to reflect who I am – wholly and unfiltered.

On the radio, I’ve ALWAYS endeavoured to be as authentic and vulnerable as I can be – and that doesn’t always make me come across as the ‘prettiest’ or ‘most palatable’… but it is ALWAYS me.

I share my opinions with my whole chest.
I speak up when I disagree.
I stand up for the people who don’t have the privilege of a microphone, like I do.

There ISN’T anyone else on air like me because I’m the only one who can be “me”: flaws and all.

And if it matters to me so much that you HEAR that, why have I always been so afraid to let you SEE that too?

What happens when I let the greys grow out, and the silver strands of my womanhood mingle with the browns of my childhood?

What happens when I don’t suck in my stomach, and the body that carried two children falls over my pants when I sit?

What happens when my eyelids sag a bit more, and the lines that tell the story of my life stick around on my face even when it’s static?

What happens when my lashes aren’t curly and black, my cheeks don’t have that rosey glow, and my lips aren’t a perfect pout?

Do I lose my value as a woman?

Do I lose my currency in this world?

Do I lose my career?

Do I lose your love?

Do I even CARE?

I’m not sure I do anymore.
Because I’m tired of being part of the machine that endlessly pumps this message out. And, by the way, it’s the SAME machine that has told women we are each other’s competition for our entire lives.

Personally, I’m ready to shut that machine down ENTIRELY.

I’m ALL for you doing YOU – live your life EXACTLY how you want, because it’s what you want and NOT because someone has coerced you into thinking your value is only skin (or hair) deep.

I will be here to straighten your crown, and cheer you on, and celebrate the awesomeness that is YOU.

And I hope, whatever I do (or don’t do) to my body, you’ll still be there to straighten my crown too.

Cause it’s slowly growing in, and it’s sparkly silver.