‘Am I Beautiful?’: The Grieving Process of Female Beauty
*Content Warning: This article contains themes of grief, death, and loss for metaphorical purposes.
**Editor’s Note: This article knowingly conflates biological sex (female) with gender (woman) in order to mirror the broader sex-gender conflation that is prevalent within the beauty myth.
‘Am I beautiful?’
I know that I am not the only woman or girl who has ever pondered this question. But what exactly do I mean when I ask this of myself, or of you? Am I seeking affirmation of my femininity given its traditional association with conceptions of beauty? Or perhaps, more destructively, am I really asking whether, as a woman, I am powerful?
It appears to be ingrained in us, from the moment we become cognisant of ourselves as ‘female,’ that our ultimate value is embodied in the image of a beautiful woman—she is whom we must aspire to be. This pressure to deem the appearance of beauty—a nebulous concept, with its unattainable and ever-changing standards—to be the epitome of female power is, for many, an unavoidable feature of daily life. Be it a music video in which a ‘beautiful’ (young) woman becomes the object of romantic advances—the object to be acquired—or the Disney princess lauded for her appearance, wherever we may glance the feminine ideal is equated with beauty. She embodies beauty, or perhaps it is more accurate to say that it is beauty which embodies her—in fact, she is powerful because she is beautiful.
But what specifically is this ‘power’? Arguably it is a power in being noticed by another, of being desired by a hypothetical man. We women appear to have been taught from an early age that this figment of female beauty is our ultimate value criterion, one which is capable of trumping all of our other attributes. Therefore, although we may be a talented artist, a mother to young children, or even a good friend, this ‘beauty’ assessment becomes all-defining—essentially, it teaches us that our overall power as women depends on whether we are ‘beautiful’ enough for this hypothetical man to collect us. Through beauty, we thus acquire a backhanded power—a power to be chosen by somebody else.
My power as a beautiful woman is conditional: I exist as a mere reflection
‘And how do you see me, I wonder?’
Through our inescapable exposure to external reminders of the ‘beauty’ criterion of female worth—such as the fashion magazine cover, the makeup advertisement, or the latest tabloid story about a man leaving his wife for a younger woman—I could be forgiven for believing that your answer to this query should matter to me. In fact, arguably I should hold it in the highest esteem—perhaps even higher than my own—for, according to these pressures, my value as a woman will always be measured by your visual perception of me. Thus, my overall power as a ‘beautiful’ woman is always conditional on the observation of others.
According to this ultimate power criterion, my existence as a woman becomes a mere reflection of how you perceive me. Whether you consider me to be beautiful or not, you hold the key to my power, an ironic power whereby I am necessarily defined in opposition to myself, as the ‘other’—I am a mirror of your perception, and nothing more.
‘So, how do you perceive me now that you see me?’
In the light of this inevitable loss of ‘self’ that accompanies the female ‘beauty’ determination, somebody’s statement that ‘you are beautiful,’ arguably signifies the following: ‘for now I deem you to have power, however I can just as easily take this away.’ As such, our power when we are perceived in this way—as beautiful women—becomes empty, for it ultimately belongs to somebody else.
But what if I were to choose not to pursue this beauty ideal? In fact, to so deviate from this communal expectation would be a choice—a choice to vest power back into my domain, away from the hands of the person in front of me. Arguably, it would represent an attempt to revert the established process of female otherisation—I would now hold the key to my own power as a woman, seeking self-worth from within.
However, it is undoubtful that a perennial self-awareness would still hang over my head. For, although I would view my value as being defined by something other than my appearance, you would not see me in this way. In fact, where the objective currency of female power is your criteria-laden perception of my beauty, I would have nothing to exchange—I would be at risk of relegation to the back of a female-only queue where a hypercritical ‘beauty myth’[1] ranks me alongside my sisters. It appears that the older I become, or the less ‘beautiful,’ or ‘attractive’—or any number of synonyms—I (thus) become, the further I progress towards the back of this queue, envying my more ‘beautiful’ and ultimately more powerful comparators. And with time, the same fate awaits us women where, being eventually discarded by this ideal, we all find ourselves at the back of this queue.
In addition, if I were to wear makeup, why would I have chosen to express myself in this way? For some individuals the ritual of applying makeup is something that they do not think about—it has become a core aspect of their identity through habit. Of course, while makeup may be worn by persons of any gender, it is traditionally associated with women—in fact, for many it symbolises our transition from childhood to adulthood. But what would have prompted my wearing of makeup in the first place? Would it be curiosity? A rite of passage? Because I liked the look of certain colours or the feel of foundation on my face?
For some, I imagine, the wearing of makeup makes the following statement: that I am doing this for myself, and not for other people, because I like how it makes me feel. But, with reference to myself, perhaps I would choose to wear makeup because as a child I observed portrayals of the objective woman effortlessly doing the same, and I wanted to be seen in this way, as identifiably ‘feminine,’ with the maturity of a woman and with her recognisable ‘beauty.’ To my childhood eyes she resembled the epitome of female power, an image which is still repeated to us in films, in advertisements, in Instagram posts ad infinitum—her purported power is inescapable.
There is something about her power as an instantly recognisable, ‘beautiful’ woman which extends beyond the subjective remarks of our parents, partners, and children that we are beautiful, to encompass an objective level of recognition—this resembles a power in number, a sense of being perceived by others en masse. As such, by applying makeup—a heavily marketed symbol of female beauty—or by emulating the appearance of the ‘supermodel’ or celebrity icon—even though I may not personally find them appealing—I guess that I am seeking this objective perception. In fact, whether I am doing these things for myself or for others, I am asserting my identity as objectively feminine, as objectively beautiful, and thus as objectively more powerful than if I were not doing these things. And these identifiable symbols of female power are so much easier for you to accept, without question, when you look at me, as compared to my status as a talented artist, a mother to young children, or a good friend.
Thus, it is arguably safer for me to view myself as powerful in this way, than to fall to the back of an unforgiving queue, a queue that I never intended to join, but which I was signed up to from birth—being a woman seen through the eye of the beauty myth, my ultimate power will always be a capped reflection.
The finite power of female beauty
When somebody remarks that a woman is ‘beautiful,’ it is arguable that they are indirectly affirming that her power is finite. This is because what feeds into this power, establishing its significance, is that it is designed to run out—the objective criteria of ‘beauty’ are manufactured in such a way that not every woman can acquire them and, once acquired, we are perennially mindful of their loss. Therefore, the power of female beauty is necessarily accompanied by the shadow of inevitable loss, both of one’s value as a woman, and more fundamentally, of one’s arguable self, for my power is always conditional on your perception of me, and yet, there will come a time when you no longer see this in me—this game of beauty is rigged from the beginning so that I will always lose.
‘Do you like what you see?’
This fleeting nature of the power of female beauty may be observed in the sleepless manner in which it is forced upon us in popular perception. Consider, for example, the latest TV series featuring a ‘beautiful’ (young) female protagonist, and the tabloid newspaper article depicting the recent Instagram photo of a ‘beautiful’ celebrity in a provocative pose—the impression of female beauty appears to be one of an inevitable hourglass, where the sand is running out. Here the beauty myth urges us to remain conscious that our power is about to diminish—as we age past the age of eighteen, our bodies change post-childbirth, or we gain weight, for example—thereby encouraging us to cling to the past or present, while being fearful of the future. Thus, with each Instagram photo, the message of female beauty becomes as follows: ‘Do you see me? Am I beautiful to you? Please reassure me that I am still powerful.’
The grieving process of female beauty
The sense of inevitable loss that accompanies the finite power of female beauty may arguably be represented as a grieving process.[2] Here, the initial stage of grief—our awareness of loss—extends beyond the loss of power itself, to encapsulate an arguable loss of one’s self as a woman—the death of the self. Since our value as a woman, according to the beauty myth, is as a perpetual reflection of others’ perceptions of our appearances, our power depends on the following question: how do you see me? As such, when we eventually fail to live up to the unattainable and ever-changing criteria of the myth, our question receives a fainter and more distant response, until we reach a point at which we are no longer seen—we thereby lose our reflections, becoming invisible selves, powerless now that we receive no recognition as objectively ‘beautiful.’
Following our loss of power in the unforgiving eye of the beauty myth, we may enter a second stage in the grieving process—one which I have modelled on the ‘bargaining’[3] phase of grief. Here the myth encourages us to continually seek ways to alleviate the loss of our power—for example, we may feel pressure to seek cosmetic surgery or buy ‘anti-ageing’ skin products, fearful of the prospect of being sent to the back of the ‘beauty’-demarcated queue. And such decisions by women are not something to ridicule or disparage. In fact, they are perfectly understandable given the domination of the beauty myth, whose messages were instilled in us all from an early age—where appearance is everything, why deride me for seeking to safeguard my ‘self’?
The final phase of the grieving process of female beauty is arguably the stage of acceptance. Here many women, abandoned by the myth that was indoctrinated in us from our childhoods, are able to escape its doomed trap by realising its promise of power to be empty. However, we may be left with a longing feeling which still lingers within us, often harking back to a happier (younger) and more ‘beautiful’ time in our lives—like a childhood wound, this illusion of power may sometimes resurface. We begin to find power in ourselves as women, a power which was always there, but which we were previously unable to see. However, the past may continue to haunt us, with the changeable ‘beauty’ ideal still being reflected in our surroundings, in what we read, hear, and watch. This beauty myth was something we were once involuntarily tied to, but now, in vain, we observe it afflicting our daughters and granddaughters—and so the cycle continues.
Conclusion
‘Am I beautiful?’
What advice would I give my younger self who, growing up with those advertisements, film portrayals, and other reminders of the beauty myth, would ponder this question? I guess that I would advise her not to fear relegation to the back of a hypercritical and comparative queue of female beauty. Rather, I would encourage her to ask different questions of herself, such as ‘am I kind?’ or ‘am I creative?’ For in asking the question ‘am I beautiful?’ she is entrusting her sense of worth into the doomed hands of an ever-changing and uncaring myth, according to which her power is finite.
Ultimately, by calling me ‘beautiful,’ as a woman, you render me a mere reflection of yourself—an ‘other’ rather than a ‘self.’ Instead, I choose to recognise that, as a woman, I am already powerful as I am.
Article tags: | identity | beauty myth | ageism |
It appears to be ingrained in us, from the moment we become cognisant of ourselves as ‘female,’ that our ultimate value is embodied in the image of a beautiful woman—she is whom we must aspire to be. Image source: Pablo Picasso / www.PabloPicasso.org
Be it a music video in which a ‘beautiful’ (young) woman becomes the object of romantic advances—the object to be acquired—or the Disney princess lauded for her appearance, wherever we may glance the feminine ideal is equated with beauty. Image source: Disney
Perhaps I would choose to wear makeup because as a child I observed portrayals of the objective woman effortlessly doing the same, and I wanted to be seen in this way, as identifiably ‘feminine,’ with the maturity of a woman and with her recognisable ‘beauty.’ Image source: Getty Images
Consider, for example, the latest TV series featuring a ‘beautiful’ (young) female protagonist, and the tabloid newspaper article depicting the recent Instagram photo of a ‘beautiful’ celebrity in a provocative pose—the impression of female beauty appears to be one of an inevitable hourglass, where the sand is running out. Image Source: Elnur / Shutterstock, Inc.
Being a woman seen through the eye of the beauty myth, my ultimate power will always be a capped reflection Image source: medium
It appears that the older I become, or the less ‘beautiful,’ or ‘attractive’—or any number of synonyms—I (thus) become, the further I progress towards the back of a female-only, ‘beauty’-demarcated queue, envying my more ‘beautiful’ and ultimately more powerful comparators. Image source: The Rotherham Bugle
The beauty myth encourages us to continually seek ways to alleviate the loss of our power—for example, we may feel pressure to seek cosmetic surgery or buy ‘anti-ageing’ skin products, fearful of the prospect of being sent to the back of the ‘beauty’-demarcated queue. Image source: Elise Hu / NPR
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Sources Cited
[1] Naomi Wolf, The Beauty Myth: How Images of Beauty Are Used Against Women (Vintage 1991).
[2] Kimberly Holland, 'What You Should Know About the Stages of Grief’ (healthline)<https://www.healthline.com/health/stages-of-grief> accessed 22 April 2020.
[3] ibid.