My fashion dilemma and my eyebrows

Image via: Glam4Good

Before I start, don't even bother to read on if you're only interested in a photo-log of my 'journey'. It's not happening. 

I've always had an antagonistic relationship with fashion. I was the first born, so mum had fun dressing me. And to top it off it was the 70s, so I was a freaking little hipster in floral smocks, corduroy overalls and red Mary Janes. When you have your first baby you enjoy adorning your new little bundle of joy in cute outfits. You get a ton of presents and hand-me-downs and you revel in your first opportunity to give your little 'mini-me' an identity. Within the first year though, you soon realise the importance and necessity of practicality. This usually follows your first experience of a colossal shit explosion, when suddenly Bonds onesies with zippers down the front seem like the only logical solution. 

I grew up in the 80s. It was short shorts with piping, tracksuits, glo socks (one pink and one yellow), jelly shoes, more corduroy, sloppy Joes and grandpa tops, denim and more denim. I was a teen in the 90s and that's when I went anti-fashion, because as a teenager, you're anti-everything, AS IT SHOULD BE.

It started slowly. My friends and I obsessed about INXS and that was my introduction to band t-shirts. I grew my collection steeply for the next decade: The Cure, The Stone Roses, The Pixies, The Clouds, Hole, The Beatles (it was retro), Lenny Kravitz, Rat Cat. I wore band shirts to identify my taste in music and reveal the concerts I had been to and therefore my personality. I didn't have a lot of money. I had a job from the age of 13 though, so I did have some and it allowed me to make independent choices about what I wore (and listened to); clothes and music were all I spent my money on. I remember saving up to buy my first pair of Doc Marten boots and it was exhilarating. To this day, when I feel like treating myself to something special to wear, I buy a pair of Docs.

I swung between Goth and Hippy - let's face it; the ingredients of Grunge, never committing to either and on some level always knowing that teenage fashion was just a bunch of bullshit to sell you stuff and convince you that you needed to 'pick one' subculture to fit into. The minute something became 'mainstream' was the second my generation, Gen X, rejected it. 

When I was perceived by others as Goth, it was because I was wearing black. I loved wearing black, I still do. I related it to my cultural heritage of the traditional Maltese dress called the Ghonella. Black is an easy and practical choice. I loved lining my eyes in heavy black eyeliner. It made me feel scary and powerful; a throw back to the days when mum dressed me as a Gypsy for Maltese Carnival. I have big eyes and when I line them they look huge and foreboding. If I didn't want to make eye contact, I wore black makeup because no one could look at me for long without turning their gaze away. It accentuated my rage. I plucked the shit out of my eyebrows. It was fashionable to have thin, arched, 1920s eyebrows in the 90s. They looked feminine, but they also made my giant black-lined eyes look even bigger. I dyed my hair black or blue black.

When I wasn't feeling dark I was indulging in the trend of bringing back 60s idealism, psychedelia and shit loads of Pucci and paisley and I dyed my hair red or burgundy. I discovered the local Indian fashion shop that sold beautiful cotton maxi skirts and dresses, cheese cloth blouses and paisley scarfs. They also introduced us to silver jewellery, gemstones, crystals and incense. Looking back and still today, I'm aware that I was possibly appropriating culture, especially more recently since piercing my nose. I haven't made my peace with any of it yet, but I have awareness. I just like what I like. Again, I'm sure my traditional Maltese peasant dress roots has something to do with my taste and definitely explains my love of crocheted lace. I had crocheted dresses and cardigans that looked like doilies and wore them shamelessly. I have previously written about my crochet addiction.

The dichotomy of black and colour suited my personality of extremes and I could go one way or the other, or a bit of both. I confused a fellow student at Sydney University during a first year Sociology lecture. When I met her I was wearing a black Robert Smith t-shirt, over a short black mini and black opaque stockings beneath my black Doc boots with purple laces. She was a proper Goth, only ever wore black and lace and described to me in detail what her funeral was going to be like. The next time we met up I had on a green and yellow cotton Indian skirt covered in Aztec suns, a Stone Roses t-shirt with holes in the shoulders and my black converse Chuck Taylors. She snubbed me! She was disgusted that I was bright enough to hurt her eyes and her dark, dark soul.  

Which brings me to my dilemma with clothes and body adornment/image now. I stopped dyeing my hair a few years ago. It coincided with me having three young children and making a bet with my hairdresser that I wouldn't cave. I've now fully embraced my greying hair and enjoy the discomfort it provokes in others, in particular, other women. I still get told things like "you're too young to go grey", when in fact I'm looking my actual age and the hairdresser (not the one who I'm WINNING the bet against) still asks if I will get a colour today. During my last haircut, I received unsolicited and extensive advise about dyeing my hair. I didn't hesitate to mention that my husband never gets asked about his greying hair and that I'd been dyeing my hair since I was 15 and knew all about tints, rinses, bleaching, peroxide, lemon juice, roots, foils and permanents, but had chosen to save my time, money and scalp and resist the need to be infantilised.  As women, we are not allowed to grow old. We are compelled to stay child like, free from body hair, coarse hair, white hair, wrinkles, crinkles, wisdom and strength. As we get older and lose our ornamental value, we become invisible. In the media, the workplace, public spaces and anywhere where power and influence lies. This is the general rule. Women break rules all the time. And the way to break this stupid rule, in my opinion, is to get old and get visible. Get hairy, frizzy, grey, louder, stronger and in everyone's face - like men do. When men do it we don't blink an eye. We commend them and give them a parade for being 'silver foxes'.

I'm fighting the pressure to address my body hair. I don't systematically monitor my body and spend time, effort and sometimes pain to make myself prepubescent anymore. Don't get me wrong, I still groom and shave when I feel like it. Literally when I get in the shower and go, "you know what, today I'm finding a razor and spending an extra 10 minutes shaving and moisturising." These efforts are getting to be few and far between. I literally can't be arsed that often. I've also stopped plucking my eyebrows. This has been really hard to stick to. I had thick, uneven eyebrows as a teen. I'm positive that I if I'd left them alone, I would have been able to just tidy them up and the caterpillar-brow fashion of today would have been entirely accessible. However in a bid to succumb to the pressure to look more feminine and less ethnic, I plucked the bajayzus out of them and now they WON'T FUCKING GROW BACK! Well that's wrong, that was just the initial panic, but my failure to give a shit meant that I have been able to neglect plucking them and ignore their asymmetry for long enough for them to bulk up a little. For when I'm going out somewhere and feel like wearing makeup, my discovery of a very subtle eyebrow pencil gives me the opportunity to colour them in (on a cool day when I don't have sweat pouring down my face) to even them up a bit. However, I will admit, that I'm paranoid that I've become that chick. The one with the coloured in eyebrows and not in a Kardashian way, but a disconcerting and strange way. If I knew then what I know now I would never have touched them and I wouldn't have made fun of that mum at school who drew her entire eyebrows on depending on her desired facial expression! When I colour my eyebrows in, I feel like I look like Bert from Sesame Street.

So, here I am; 42, grey hair, hairy legs and pits, coloured-in eyebrows and I have nothing to fucking wear. I hate clothes. I hate wearing them, I hate styling them, I hate looking like a Big W catalogue, because let's face it, that's what everyday people wear. Myer is for wankers. I have for a long time now refused to buy expensive clothes. I'm not that person. It would be a lie. So I buy cheap clothes, but I'm not that person either because, you know, I object to slave labour and disposable fashion. I would love to make my own clothes because I know what everything would look like. In summer, I'd wear cotton peasant skirts and dresses with tank tops and in winter I'd be in jeans (more specifically, elasticised jeggings) and slouchy tops. I envisage going out in pajamas as a fashion. Draw string and elasticised pants made of linen and cotton, and loose fitting tops with low necks so I don't feel like I'm suffocating. I could make my own clothes, but fabric is expensive and I have not the time nor the patience. I hate clothes, but I can't walk around naked!

So now, I look for a bargain where I can get it, at the big department stores or online. I'm still part Goth, part Hippy at heart, mostly dressing like a toddler, happily aging and breaking the so called rules. In the end, I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror and then for the rest of the day, people have to look at me so in fact, it's their problem what I look like. It's none of my business what they think of my attire. I know when I open my mouth to smile and speak, when I look someone in the eye to connect, that's when who I am takes shape. And if they can't see beyond what's concealing my nudity, that's their dilemma not mine.

Sexism isn't an opinion. It's fact.

Image via: mytinyphone

So I got into a Twitter discussion with @MrOzAtheist and his followers yesterday. As I write this it's still going. 

Let me begin by saying, I have followed him for a while and have mostly had admiration and respect for him and his work, until now. I agreed with him about atheism and the harm that religion does, particularly the institutionalised Abrahamic religions and their impact on women's lives. The thing is I am very often disappointed by people I admire, in particular, men I admire, who despite all their intelligence and kindness, still harbour very deeply ingrained male privilege, sexism and misogyny. When they are questioned, this brings about a whole shit storm of abuse, denial and deflection, from themselves and others, including women who have internalised the effects of patriarchy. At the very least, these high profile men aren't speaking to me as a person. They are speaking to other men and women they approve of. Women like me are their secondary concern. Male is standard. Female other, regardless of the gendered body spectrum. And women are so used to internalising it, they accept it, even perpetuate it.

That is why, when I came across a Tweet by MrOz in response to a Tweet by the ABA (The Australian Breastfeeding Association), I was taken aback. Given his understanding of the harm religion does to women, I assumed he was a feminist. My literal response was WTF.

I was not offended, but thought it was sexist and an abuse of male privilege to feel entitled to make a sexualised comment, (asking consent before breastfeeding, conjuring the image of an adult male sucking on a woman's breast) in that context. IN THAT CONTEXT. I was particularly annoyed that the ABA was attempting to make a supportive Tweet, aimed mainly at mothers, perhaps first time mums, who are embarking on breastfeeding, with all it's obstacles and stigmas, for the first time, and that's where he chose to try out his 'lame' joke. Some people even called it a "dad joke". Because saying "just kidding" means you're absolved of any wrong doing. Daggy jokes are a great way to get away with saying whatever you want and then blaming the person who thinks it's off. I swear, I was waiting for someone to say it was like locker room banter, but no one dared. Close enough though. I get that consensual adult breastfeeding is a real thing. I do. It doesn't bother me. I just don't believe that is who the ABA aimed their breastfeeding Tweet at.

It is no secret, despite the foot stamping denial of some, that breasts are sexualised, women's bodies are sexualised, as objects for the gratification of men. This is an acceptable way to view a woman's body and particularly her breasts. When breasts are exposed in order to suckle an infant, controversy ensues. That is why the ABA felt the need to remind women that their right to breastfeed anywhere and anytime is protected by Australian Law. If it wasn't an issue, the ABA wouldn't have needed to Tweet that.

Breastfeeding rights and stigma aren't an issue just in Australia. Recently, an American mum posted a picture of herself breastfeeding in a Victoria's Secret store, after being asked by staff to move along and breastfeed her baby in the toilet. The hypocrisy was evident.

Image via: Daily Mail (I know, shit source, but relevant content.)

MrOZ thought it was funny to play on the ambiguity of the words and to place himself in the position of the user of the breastfeeding woman's breasts. He was applauded might I add. People, women too, breastfeeding mothers, even the ABA, saw no issue with this. He was just making a silly joke and he was addressing consent, so let's give him a parade and a medal for being a champion of women's self-determination, while creating the imagery of a grown man sucking on a woman's breast. On the ABA account. In response to a supportive Tweet aimed at possibly inexperienced breastfeeding mothers.

I didn't find it funny in that context, but I will reiterate. I wasn't offended or triggered. I just called it what it was. A man feeling entitled to pipe up on a women's safe space aimed at empowering and supporting them, to be funny, hardy har. What a hero!

Mayhem ensued. I was accused of all the textbook dysfunctions that addle a woman's brain when she insists on not being treated like a doormat. I was humourless, couldn't take a joke, didn't get it, too sensitive, a social justice warrior (that's not an insult btw!), crazy, angry, bitter, needed a root, needed a wank, triggered, abused, man hating, racist (for mentioning white male privilege) and sexist just to mention a few. One woman thought that someone should hit me to shut me up. MrOz, in fact none of his followers, found that inappropriate. At one stage, I retaliated at a fellow who called me a "femitroll". I said "go fuck yourself sideways, you disrespectful cunt". It didn't do me any favours. Although, I deleted it, thinking my brutal retort would only be funny to me, MrOz, being the pro Twitterer that he is, had already screen grabbed it and re tweeted it. Several times. It was the only one of my responses he focused on. He kept asking me to explain the sexism, but didn't want to address it when I did. Just kept denying any wrong doing, intentional or not, and kept calling me crazy. It's my ovaries you know, I'm hysterical! Oldest come back in the book.

No one, not women, not mothers, not the ABA, not people who I thought were feminists saw that it was sexist to feel entitled to invade that space with a sexualised joke. Only one person finally agreed that it amounted to harrassment, but then people argued that that was impossible because it was on Twitter, not real life. I know I know, offense is taken not given. I chose to be offended (I wasn't), it's subjective. Ok. Well in that context, it was sexist. 

They insisted it wasn't sexist. If anything, he was championing consent. And if any woman was triggered by that, she was the problem. If a new mother reading that, feeling the weight of new responsibility, the scrutiny associated with motherhood, the stigma of breastfeeding, the myriad of emotions and hormones that the ABA aims to soften the blow of; if any woman may have found that an invasion of her safe space, she was the problem. That is victim blaming and rape culture in action. But I was told they were "buzz words" that didn't mean anything and to go get a sense of humour and a root.

At one stage the discussion turned into women playing the victim, the family courts being against men and fathers, women perpetrating violence against men at the same rate as men against women, men dying more often than women at war. I kid you not. Those things were thrown back at me for merely questioning the context of a shitty sexist joke, the content of which I didn't even give two shits about. 

I simply thought a man creating the image of himself sucking on a woman's boob to breastfeed (with consent of course, *round of applause*) on a Twitter account reassuring women of their right to breastfeed their infants without harrassment, was harrassment in itself and that privilege was sexist. The End. 

 

Picture Perfect

 

My friends and I used to take selfies in high school in the 90s, before digital cameras. We'd hold the camera out at arms length and point it towards our faces and click. Then we'd have to wait until we'd used up the whole roll of film (35mm) and get the thing developed, hoping for the best outcome. Sometimes it was blurry, or I'd close my eyes or roll them back. These days we have no such dilemma. We point and click with our phones and the results are instant. If the photo is 'ugly', we  delete it and do it again and again and again until we're happy with it. Same goes for any picture for that matter. A group shot, the scenery. If it's not up to scratch, we can correct it. Is this reality? Or is it edited, enhanced pretense?

Of course this luxury is advantageous, we can create beautiful images, perfect moments, wonderful memories, but what have we lost in the process. Spontaneity, authenticity, heck even comedy.

Sometimes selfies do go wrong, a quick google search of funny selfies or selfies gone wrong will illuminate my point.  I have to say, this one is my all time favourite.

With the digital age has come a narcissism so intense, that the desire to look perfect in a photo has surpassed any notion of what beauty actually is in real life. Sorry I'm distracted, I can't stop looking at the turd in the photo above and I can't help wondering where the toilet paper is, didn't she wipe her arse?

The reality is that anyone can look amazing in a photo with the right lighting, angles, make up and technique and sometimes the photos we hate of ourselves caught off guard, upon future examination become a beautiful rendition of a moment in time in our lives. Has that happened to anyone before? It has certainly happened to me. I'm not the kind of person that aims for perfection in photographs especially if they are of myself, I don't pose unless I'm taking the piss. I want to capture what I'm doing and how I'm feeling in that moment. Mostly I take photos when I am doing something that I want to remember. A lunch with family, an outing with my husband and baby, an event I'm attending or just something I see that I think is beautiful that I want to capture, something I know I will want to remember, something that has a story attached to it. Very often when I see pictures of myself, I hate them initially. Especially if someone else has taken the picture. I may be standing at a weird angle and my body looks out of proportion. My face isn't symmetrical and certain angles make me look completely hideous. Often however, when I look at that same picture months or years down the track, I don't see the imperfections anymore. I see a younger self, someone who is smiling genuinely because I can never pose in a picture and I remember that I was doing something I loved and having a good time. I used to be embarrassed by photos when I was young, now I look back and think what a self conscious kid I was and for no good reason. The pictures have captured happy memories, mostly. Sometimes I just had the shits and those moments are clear as day as well.

So is it only a question of perception? Do we judge what we see in a photo or in the mirror only by what our brain has been programmed to think is beautiful? That could be an unanswerable philosophical question, but there has to be some influence on what we value as attractive from the images and value systems that surround us. For example if every woman on television is thin, has ghd curls and fake eye lashes, is pouting and has her hand on her hip to look more symmetrical and in proportion, doesn't that become the standard by which we measure ourselves by? With advertising companies bombarding us with images, particularly of women, that have been digitally manipulated - sometimes slightly retouched, sometimes completely altered - does our brain become programmed subconsciously to think that anything outside that idea of perfection is ugly or wrong; despite how completely unattainable it is. In some of these images, necks are lengthened, eyes widened and moved further apart, hair lines lifted, blemishes and lines removed, teeth whitened, skin lightened. Dove have created an amazing video highlighting this reality.

It seems that people these days judge their appearance based on what they see in a photograph or video not what they look like in the mirror or what they look like to others around them, at least those who know and love them and whose opinion of them actually counts. They are not even considering their relationship with themselves when they look at their own reflection or their relationship with others like the person taking the picture or the people in the photo with them, they are looking at the face as an object instead of a subject; measuring and considering its parts individually and independently of each other. Are the eyes wide; are the lips pouty; is the skin smooth. They are not analysing what is behind the eyes or what story the face as a whole is telling. You can smile and pout all you want, but if you are miserable, it is obvious. You can be caught off guard with your eyes rolling back in your head and a stupid shape to your mouth; but if you're blissfully happy, you look it.

With the prevalence of social media and the instantaneous way with which we post self images online, for some people it is becoming more important to look good in a photo than in real life. This brings me to the obsession with erasing lines. We know all too well the claims that cosmetic companies make about creams that are age defying. There's always someone in a lab coat telling us about a new scientific advance that will retard or reverse the process of aging. Nonsense. There is absolutely no scientific (real science, not pseudo science) evidence anywhere that proves that this is true. 

However, these days there are more dramatic ways to iron out our faces short of surgery. Injectables. These do work. They reach the nerves to the muscles to stop them from contracting, which erases and prevents wrinkles. It is temporary. I don't know what that means long term with regular use, I'd be interested to see some studies about the long term effects of this procedure. This study looks at the use of botox on children with cerebral palsy in their lower limbs to limit spasticity. It appears that they needed several injections to make a difference, but not too many otherwise there was no benefit. I wonder if it is the same with its use cosmetically. This article in the UK's Daily Mail talks about the possible risks and these articles in the British Medical Journal bring up some great points about the fact that the 'botox industry' is not well regulated, so although you can find high quality practitioners who know what they are doing, inexperienced and misinformed individuals can get access to the substances and equipment quite easily and hold what are commonly referred to as 'botox parties' where shit can go wrong. There are also concerns about these cosmetic treatments being unlawfully tested on animals.

I recently saw the movie Gravity with Sandra Bullock. I love her, she's such an amazing actress, but her face put me off in this movie. She played such a beautiful, heart wrenching, emotional, thought provoking character who found herself in an impossible situation; one that no ordinary human can even begin to comprehend the enormity of - she was out of this world, literally; BUT SHE COULDN'T MOVE HER FACE! I could see the effort; I could see her eyes forcing themselves to convey her emotions, I could feel the expression and the sentiment, BUT HER FACE!! It was literally frozen. All the feelings were behind a mask, bursting to come out, trapped, their only outlet her eyes, hidden behind muscles that were no longer allowed to function. I'm gobsmacked an actress would do that to herself. And there are so many others. Nicole Kidman in Baz Luhrmann's Australia was another one - amazing film, brilliant cinematography, but all I could focus on was her bloody forehead and her lips, which kept distorting in volume in various scenes. It gave it away that they didn't shoot the thing in sequence that's for sure.

I've always wondered why all the beautiful actresses go nuts with the botox. I remember the first time I saw Courtney Cox on Family Ties. I cut out a picture of her from a magazine because I thought she was the most beautiful actress I'd ever seen. I remember thinking to myself that she was going to be huge and I was right. She was stunning on Friends. Seen her lately? What the hell happened? 


 

I'm not judging her. I reckon there is plenty of pressure on women to stay young and 'relevant' in certain industries; I'm not blaming the victim, I'm demonstrating the result of what the Dove exercise produces. She was gorgeous, lines and dimples and crows feet and all. Now she looks like a fucking lion whose been smacked in the mouth. She looks like she's in pain. It pisses me off a bit. I feel angry on her behalf. She didn't need to be corrected so extremely. 

Now I don't want to ignore the hypocrisy I feel creeping in. I dye my hair. I must admit, I'm too lazy to do it often these days and am embracing my grey hair. I've never had it coloured at the hairdresser, I do it myself. When I was young I dyed it for fun, just to change the colour and style. These days it is to cover the grey and because the store bought stuff nowadays is ammonia free and full of lovely oils that work as a treatment. I love how my hair feels when I have just coloured it, even though I miss bits underneath because I do it myself and can't justify buying two packets for coverage. I can't reach or see the underneath bits anyway. But at least the top bits look nice. I'm really not that serious about perfecting it, it's just an illusion - smoke and mirrors. 

The irony and inequity hasn't escaped me. My husband whose silvering hair (especially since he's met me - coincidence?) is increasing, wouldn't dream of colouring his hair. I know some men do it, but most don't. It is acceptable. It is seen as distinguished. Aging on a man is ok. It demonstrates maturity, wisdom, wealth. Brings to mind that stupid Budget Insurance ad where the man looks twice the age of his partner who he patronising calls 'love' because her French accent prevents her from pronouncing the word Budget correctly. She's naked in the shower, he's shaving in the mirror, fully clothed. It's normalised to see a man much older than his younger partner. If it was reversed she would be branded a cougar. Which brings me right back to Courtney Cox. I would have been more impressed with her new TV show Cougar Town if she'd let her hair go grey, kept her lines and aged gracefully and still got laid with younger men.

It's time to rethink why we take pictures, what is the purpose? What are we saying when we put a photo of ourselves up on the internet? Are we sharing a moment in our lives, genuinely or are we representing ourselves as an image, an inanimate object?

Here's a fun exercise. Pick a friend on Facebook and go to their photos. How many facial expressions can you count on their faces? Is it the same smile over and over again in every situation or do they sometimes look surprised, puzzled, bored, happy, deep in thought, cranky, drunk, distracted, jubilant, neutral....

Don't judge! Just observe and tell every one you love that they are beautiful once in a while. And look at yourself in the mirror often. Look deep into your eyes, smile at yourself and say it out loud....."I FUCKEN LOVE YOU! "