A story is being written, a story of the old and young, of all race and color, social, marital, and political status, a story of the dead and living. A craving to be seen, heard, loved, and accepted blended with a tale of discrimination and about the perfect-eyed. A few might not understand the pain and disappointment that strikes the heart of the seeker, the anguish being palpable from a facial expression.
Laced with an ideology of perfection, the never incorrect, apt with a craving to judge but who gives you that right?! Yes, you. You the unsatisfiable, and without contempt you judge me for being a housewife, you judge me when I choose to be a working-class lady, you speak against my being weighty and you call me starved when I choose to go thin, you complain of how dark my skin yet speak behind my back when I lighten my skin and oh, how ugly you say my natural hair looks and criticize me for getting hair extensions. Be hardworking but do not get rich lest you chase a suitable suitor you say, eat well but don’t get fat, watch your weight but do not be thin, become light but don’t get a bleach, be opinionated but it’s wrong to speak, be strong yet be vulnerable, be perfect but show some imperfections. Be this and be that you say, clearly, I’d be confused to walk your confusion.
Didn’t vogue say thin, tall and white was the only beautiful until a thick beautiful lady imprinted her picture on the very front cover and didn’t vogue say black was ugly until a rich black and beautiful young woman walked its very stage and stamped her name setting others free?
I am my own beautiful expression, I’m my storyteller and the taste of Perfection. When I look into the mirror, that is the Standard of Beauty!