When I was 16, I got into a fight with a petite Italian girl whose gloriously curly hair reminded me of strands of extra-long rotini. We fought over a boy, in the parking lot of the pizza joint where we both worked. She may have been small, but she packed a big punch – literally – landing one squarely in m mouth and knocking loose my front left tooth, which promptly died. A root canal later left just an empty, gray husk.
For 10 years the dentist has recommended putting a veneer on the tooth so it would better match the rest. “Nah,” I’d say. “It’s not that big a deal, and I’m not that vain.” And yet, it’s the only thing I see in photos of myself. So every time I smile, my lips work themselves silly trying to purse shut and conceal that dead tooth while still somehow trying to turn up at the corners – an effect, I’m afraid, that registers more condescension than a genuine glad-to-see-ya or gosh-you’re-funny.
Pair that with the deep creases that have etched themselves into that space between my eyebrows – the result, I suppose, of years’ worth of intent concentration and poor eyesight – and I’ve long been a little self-conscious of my face. Not the features on my face, mind you; they’re as fine and unique and pretty as the next girl’s, and I love seeing my family and my history in them.
What makes me self-conscious is the VIBE my face gives off when I’m not paying attention to it. Case in point: An old boss once stopped herself mid-sentence in a meeting full of people to demand of me, “WHY are you looking at me like you think I’m stupid???” I, of course, was mortified.
So, after a long time thinking about it, enter – gasp! – Botox and, as of yesterday, at the ripe age of 41, a set of Invisalign braces, which will straighten the rest of my teeth before the gray one gets fixed.
I’m not ashamed to admit this. (Okay, let’s be real, I’m a little ashamed, which is why I’m outing myself here.) I’ve considered whether spending thousands of dollars ON MY FACE is a jacked-up case of vanity run amok – or, worse, perhaps my personal version of a mid-life crisis. Am I doing this to impress a man? To compete with my girlfriends, all of whom seem to be fitter and younger and generally hotter than me? To get more likes on social media? No, no, and no. Emphatically. (Although it did occur to me that hubby might like me more if I didn’t always look so angry, lol.)
I’ve come to the conclusion that this is a simple case of my outsides not matching up with my insides. Because it’s just not right for a face to radiate unintentional annoyance or scorn instead of reflecting the loving, interested, enthusiastic approachability that’s overflowing on the inside. And there’s nothing inside me that is inclined to frown or hide or cover up, so why should my lips want to cover my teeth?
Very simply, this is alignment of inner and outer. This is an expression of energy, of joy, in the same way we reflect bits of ourselves in the pillows we toss on the couch, the clothes we wrap our bodies in, the flowers that dot our landscapes, the art that decorates our walls, the pinks and peaches and bronzes that color our cheeks.
All of these things are little ways in which we allow our insides to be seen. And that’s not vanity; that’s pure revelation.
So be beautiful in whatever way makes you feel it most. Make a change, stay the same; try something bold, or maybe something soft. Work your body strong, color your hair blue, tattoo your skin, whatever. Just please have the confidence to express your insides – and for no one other than you.
