I’m currently in possession of a hint of a mohawk. And I freaking love it. It makes me feel like a bad ass. Until it doesn’t. Until I don’t. Until I so badly want to fit into some conception of what everyone else seems to believe is pretty because a man chose someone else. Always seems to chose someone else. Someone who’s easier than a bit of mohawk.
I don’t know if you know this about me. I talk about sex all the time. And feelings. I laugh with my whole body in a way that can’t be appropriately contained. I’m tattooed. I’m muscular. Not in the way that is body builder or ballet barre lean. I’m solid. I look best in motion. Photographs are hard. There too I look best alive. Mid laugh.
On the other side of an eating disorder that left me with so much less of myself, I’ve had to build her back again. And build her with safety measures intact. Do not disappear again. But not just that. Build her back in a way that is me. That is tattoos and short hair and a ferocious desire to connect. Because otherwise she won’t be me. Otherwise I’ll lose her again.
I don’t think I’ve ever been called pretty. And if I have, I don’t remember. It’s not a descriptor that fits me. But I remember all the times I’ve been called beautiful. Often by strangers. Beauty means something else I think. Something related to choice. To the choosing of oneself. To what happens to a person when even for just a moment they allow themselves to be exactly who they are.