Tackling Insecurities One Step at a Time
It’s not easy to talk about your insecurities, especially the ones that are visible to everyone around you. But as I was whiling away my time doing nothing (as one tends to do when on vacation), I realised that I needed to address each imperfection and fault that I hold, one step at a time. Too used to tucking them away in a corner dark enough that no one can notice, this is a pretty big change for me. However, change is good. Change is welcome (or so I’m convincing myself as I scream internally throughout this whole ordeal). I’m getting right down to it because that is the only way.
The one physical insecurity that I haven’t managed to get rid of is the one related to my lips. I have black lips. Huge black outlines and a tiny strip of pink on my bottom lip. I know it’s not something I can control or something I should be insecure about. But I am. I never used to care until puberty hit and suddenly beauty standards were a thing, and I realised that soft pink supple lips were part of the package. Which unfortunately I didn’t have. I tried using honey for a while before I realised that it didn’t matter. Or more like I got too lazy to care. But then certain moments or people just brought the whole thing back full force and I’d be left at square one. Hating genetics for not gifting me with a pair of plush pink that would meet standards that I would ultimately never live up to.
I remember sometime in school when a friend asked me why I had black lips. I was momentarily stunned, not having expected such an obvious question to sprout from a friend’s mouth, more so at the insecurity that sprang right back up where it belonged — right in front of my face exactly where my lips were. I recall sputtering something about the colour being prevalent in my family genetics and just trying to hide my lips — which was ridiculous now that I think back on it. This episode brought back my attempt at correcting the colour with honey and lemon and whatnot, looking up tutorials that I never proceeded to try in my life.
The next time I was reminded of my lips was by my ex-boyfriend. Obviously, we had been dating at the time when he ventured into dangerous territory (if not for anything but because of the anxiety it brought on) by telling me how soft my lips looked. Though the comment made me blush, the next one I saw on the screen made my smile drop right back into the abyss where it had just crawled out from. “If only your lips were pink, it would’ve been perfect.” The screen glared out the words I was scared to read and I could feel my heart sink to the pit of my stomach where it stayed no matter what other topic we moved on to. I might’ve maybe left the matter at that if not for what happened the next time we talked. My wonderful ex-boyfriend sent me very ‘helpful’ videos of tutorials that I had seen many versions of before. “How to achieve the perfect pink.” “How to get kissable lips.” “How to lighten your dark lips.” All variations of the same, all pointing to one exalted result at the end — pink lips. I remember questioning myself that night, wondering whether it was really wrong to have dark lips. Whether I should curse my genes or my inability to follow through on the beauty routines I bookmarked. Again, I went through the same cycle of trying to lighten my unattractive pair of sorry lips until I broke up with said boyfriend. Which put an end to all routines for a while to be honest.
The very last time I encountered a comment about my lips, I wasn’t taken aback nor did I feel abashed. Or maybe I did, but I managed to conceal it pretty well. One of my college friends commented on the colour of my lips in a picture. My lips looked as if it had been doused with black, more pronounced due to the pout I was wearing. (I am embarrassed to say I did that for a while — the pouting I mean — before I realised I wasn’t a supermodel and the pictures I took didn’t belong on a million dollar portfolio.) I brushed off the comment with a joke saying that I didn’t need to buy black lipstick to pull off a goth look and we laughed it off and that was that. I did pull up the picture again when I was alone and curse all my fates to have such an imperfection captured on camera. However, this time, I didn’t delve back into the beauty routines that I so desperately loathed only to fall back into the feigned indifference I perfected over the years.
And of course, you would expect a happy ending now. A girl who didn’t care or a woman who never let societal standards affect herself, but sadly, I am neither of those. I am still that insecure little child that never quite knew what to do with herself. I am still self-conscious about my lips and the rest of my face and body. I still hide my worries behind a mask, successfully shutting down the emotions that strain to spread across my face. But I am coming to terms with it. I’ve given up on getting pink and instead I’m focusing on what I have. The only advantage being that I probably won’t ever have to use lip liner, which is a double kill really, considering the fact that I hated using it the one time I tried. And not everybody can boast of having two lips that are two different colours. I got the best of both worlds (please ignore that pathetic attempt at a Hannah Montana reference). So, anyway, coming to the point of this unnecessarily long and absolutely irrelevant piece of writing, I’m working with what I have. And what I have is pretty great. Because my ex-boyfriend wasn’t wrong, I do have pretty soft lips.
