The following post contains things you may find gross. I’m blunt, people. You. Have. Been. Warned. *grins*

When I was in third grade I grew my hair out. Came seventh grade its length was at my ass—or somewhere about. Then I decided to follow another style route.

I cut my hair above my shoulders to get rid of excess weight, not knowing more weight would be put on my shoulders and back and chest and head and heart. These weight holders wanted my regret. Well, it’s not something they’re gonna get.

The first time I related to the word “tomboy” I was in elementary school. I played with boys as much as girls, I liked to play Beyblades and watch them twirl. I watched Barbie and Disney Princess movies but my favourite was Mulan. I could relate to her. I felt it though at the time I didn’t know why.

The tomboys started to change. One by one. Until there’s only one. Until there’s only me. Then the questioning stares came. They asked me why don’t grow back my hair. Why I don’t do diets to slim my body. They asked me why I’m me.

One time someone said, “If you had longer hair, you’d be pretty.”

What’s pretty?

Pretty means having blue or green or hazel eyes. White, flawless skin. A fair complexion. Following society’s expectations.

I don’t want your kind of pretty.

Pretty means long, curly hair. Never leaving your face bare. Make sure you smile and never cry. Say you’re okay when you look sad and people ask why. Don’t let that mascara get ruined! Don’t let your hair tangle! Stop playing with your bangles!

I don’t want your kind of pretty.

Pretty means standing tall and knowing all answers to common questions.

“What do you think of her?” She’s as pretty as she can be.

“What’s your life motto?” Stay me.

“What’s your definition of pretty?”

What is it?

Does it mean having a good heart? Does it mean having good style? Does it mean when your makeup needs touching you excuse yourself and pamper for a while?

I don’t want your kind of pretty.

I lied.

The truth is I’ve spent my share of looking in the mirror and wishing my zits would go away and nose to be smaller and have symmetrical eyelids and… I decided. Fuck society’s kind of pretty. All I ever wanted was acknowledgement. Because the only real problem I have is my extra oily skin, and I only find it annoying because it’s uncomfortable for my skin. I like to feel my skin breathe through my pores. That may sound creepy, but if you felt that nice tingling sensation after a satisfying bath, you know what I mean.

Back to the real problem—acknowledgement. When I saw how people gave into peer pressure, I started to doubt if I had the right kind of peers for me. But even the closest people will sometimes burn me to the ground, so I stopped looking around. I looked in the mirror for the last time and started to look within.

I’ve known for a long time that you’ll always feel bad about yourself if you try to please others. So why am I still doing it? If I ever decide to grow my hair or get facials or have my armpits waxed, it’s gonna be because I want to. Not that I could imagine why I’d willingly wax anything… I believe everything’s there for a reason.

But I still do listen to what people have to say. Listening is good. It’s important. I don’t mind if people try to talk me into dieting because they’re concerned for my health. I consume less sugar know. I still eat a lot, but it’s more balanced. So it’s like my way of making peace, I think. Still….

I ask why people want me to change. The first reason that pops into their head, the first thing that they say; that’s the reason that comes into their mind the most. I get all kinds of stuff from health issues to not being able to do physical activities. But this is the one that bugs me the most: “Don’t you want to be pretty? I’m trying to help you!”

So, I don’t want your kind of pretty. I want my kind of pretty.

“So what’s pretty to you?” Let me tell you.

I think it’s pretty when people have a moon crest smile that shine like the sun and matching closed eyes to protect themselves from exploding for all the wonderful things they see and feel. I think it’s pretty when you do something embarrassing and you look at people mocking at you and you laugh along because what you did is silly.

I think it’s pretty when someone can look another person who’s just gotten out of bed with traces of saliva on their face and messy hair and crinkled clothes then say “You’re disgusting!” then keep talking to them anyway.

I think it’s pretty when you don’t care about being pretty. So I don’t want your kind of pretty.

I’ll be my kind of beautiful.