As Per Usual
Image: Pixabay
I was too stressed to appreciate that this wedding was celebrating the union of two people. To me the wedding was nothing more than a room filled with people, waiting to make audible judgements about the state of my physical appearance.
I take a deep breath and look in the mirror in my room. My stomach growled as a reminder that I was running late. Exacerbated, I adjust my saree and pull back my hair one final time, as per routine. I squint as I lean forward for one final check for other imperfections. I wanted to avoid the inevitable criticism that awaited me when my parents caught sight of me. My parents yell for me from downstairs, snapping me out of my trance. Although I loved my vibrant red lipstick, I decided that it was against my better judgement and swapped it for a more muted colour: one that looks more “natural”.
I need to pick and choose my battles to protect my peace when I can and have the energy to stand for more important issues. That morning I decided that my peace was more important than arguing about the shade of my lipstick for 15 minutes, only for me to frustratedly huff back over to my washroom and abide by my parents’ wishes (which I have done an embarrassing amount of times for various style choices). It often feels as though my parents would treat a minor mishap in presentation as a large infraction in my duty to them as my daughter. They sought to avoid other parents commenting on my various tattoos/ the length of my hair/ my septum piercing. They believed these comments were direct judgments about their parenting capabilities. My mom constantly warns me of the possible consequences of this unwanted attention with a seriousness that was quite comical. She usually rotates between her reputation being on the line on the like or that my value is now tainted as a bride as if somehow my tattoos made me less pure. So in the interest of peace, it was routine for me to stay “hidden” when I was accompanying my parents.
Satisfied with the new colour, I head downstairs to leave for my cousin’s wedding. My parents are waiting at the bottom of the stairs, rushing to leave as we were half an hour late, as per routine. I feel their eyes scanning me head to toe for imperfections in silence as I hold my saree and awkwardly shuffle down the stairs. Silently, I celebrate my successful touch down to the main floor for a few seconds before the wave of criticism.
As per routine, I was ordered to pull up my saree, remove my septum piercing, comb my curly hair and throw on more bangles to cover up my tattoo. Before I can reply, my dad asks me why it took me so long to get ready if I wasn’t wearing makeup. I stifle a laugh as I shake my head in disbelief. It was too early in the morning for me to come up with a retort aside from rolling my eyes and walking out the door.
That day, I had already known that there would be some form of complaint, regardless of whether I came downstairs in a horse costume or an evenly pleated saree. It didn’t matter because my hair was not long enough, my body not thin or tall enough, and my skin not light enough. I had come to terms with this a few years ago and have embraced by intentionally rejecting these unrealistic standards.
Unsolicited comments about my physical appearance are unavoidable. A couple of years ago, comments on my body were focused on aspects of my appearance that I had little control over, for example, the thickness of my hair or my skin tone. Now, my parents and my extended family’s attention has shifted to my deviant pursuits of beauty. Pursuing non-traditional ideals of beauty allowed me to exercise agency over my body in a unique way that has been very uplifting. Negative comments surround my non-conventional aesthetic only work to reaffirm my confidence in my choices regarding my appearance. In all honesty, I’m just happy that the aunties and uncles have something interesting to gossip about – what can I say? I aim to please.
