So much of my mental health is tied up in how I look. In the sense that when I feel I look good, it makes me feel better and stronger – and when I’m not looking my best, it drags me down. It’s a vicious cycle because on the flip side, if I’m down or not myself, I’m less inclined to slap on my face.
Women are screwed either way. This is something we’ve always known. If we spend too much time on our appearances, men are the first ones to remind us they like the ‘natural look’. We’re called narcissistic, vain – but when we don’t brush our hair and skip the concealer, we’re hideous hags with no value in this world. Worse sometimes, we’re completely invisible.
Of course it’s exhausting and unjust – but it’s nothing new. I try not to let it get me down but it still does, especially as I grow older. I don’t remember the moral of this post, it’s just a stream of consciousness running through my head at the moment. I think I’ve said before that not a day goes by I’m not preoccupied with the way I look – whether it’s my body, my hair – my face. It’s always a spectre on the horizon – staring at me. Do we all feel this way?
Anyway, I looked at myself in the mirror this morning and it was worse than ever. Hair like straw, fringe in need of a damn good trim, dull skin – with yesterday’s make-up crusted around the eyes. I put a comb through my hair and washed my face but this is not how I wish to present. This isn’t me – and you know what, it’s not acceptable that I’m too tired every day to make an effort. I’m not doing this for anyone but myself but here and no I vow to put my face on and prioritise my self-care.
Tonight I’m going to do a pink clay mask and deep condition my hair – once I’ve taken off today’s slap-dash eyeliner. I’ll get a trim tomorrow and I’m getting my nails done on Friday.